


The Hopkins Case

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Series: Sua Sponte That Sh*t [3]
Category: Justified
Genre: F/M, Season 3 concurrent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4385762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Good morning, gentlemen.  I need someone to follow up with the girlfriend in the Hopkins case."  It seemed a simple task, but nothing's simple in law enforcement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

"You are totally not going to follow up on that girlfriend." The disdain was apparent, in the look, in the tone.

But Raylan wasn't one to be deterred by anything when he had his teeth sunk into the bumper of a carload of trouble. And Quarles was definitely trouble – big trouble. Raylan could see it the first time he laid eyes on the man; he could see it, hear it, feel it, smell it, _taste_ it. It was going to take more than a follow-up conversation with the girlfriend of a small-time junkie thief to make him let go of Robert Quarles, even for an afternoon.

So Raylan stood his ground. "I was hoping you'd do it – right after you made the call," he said calmly, unmoved by the disapproving look Tim was leveling at him. Raylan still had seniority and it was convenient today to hang it over the head of this junior Marshal. He reached down and touched Tim's phone a second time, lightly, a visual nudge to encourage compliance then he handed over the information on the Hopkins case.

Tim sighed, took the file and lifted the receiver. "I'll see what I can find out." He picked out the number from memory, reluctantly, gritted his teeth while he made the request of his friend at the FBI and said a few Hail Marys to whichever patron saint watched over the actions of pig-headed and reckless lawmen. The information was on its way and no point worrying now.

His friend was always obliging and Tim was careful not to take advantage because it was all about trust. When you didn't have much family to run to, you valued your friends; when you spent time getting shot at and the only thing between you and a bullet were your buddies, you valued your friends; when you struggled weeks at a time against brutal images that intruded into your life, awake and asleep, and your buddies were the ones who stood vigil and kept you from hurting yourself while you sank into a drunken and forgetful stupor, you valued your friends.

Tim had that working for him, his network of friends; some days that was all he had and he cherished it.

So he was still pissed at Raylan a few hours later when he delivered the Tonin crime-family tree, complete with a post-it and a big black arrow pointing to the important bits. He got it that Raylan was on the scent of something nasty that needed hunting, but the collateral damage that normally accompanied Raylan's obsessions would give anyone pause before putting a friend in the line of fire. Tim made it clear that this was as far as he would go in helping. He packed up shortly afterward and headed for the elevator to follow up with the girlfriend in the Hopkins case. It would be a futile errand but he jumped at the excuse to clear out of the office. Driving was close enough to meditating as long as you weren't in a hurry to get somewhere.

But Art stopped him in the hall. "Tim, I need you to ride with Garcia."

"Gee, Boss, I was just going to have a talk with Ms. Dempsey." Tim paused to get his bearings then pointed vaguely south and east. "High-priority errand you're interrupting."

"Dempsey?"

"The girlfriend in the Hopkins case," Tim reminded him.

"Oh, right." The light came on, recognition of the name then memory of the conversation. Art looked confused. "I thought Raylan was doing that."

Tim chewed back a few angry remarks; this was the kids' fight, no need to bring Dad into it – he'd just ground them both. He threw out a diversion, "I think you're losing it, Chief. I said I'd do it, remember? You forget to take your meds with breakfast?"

"You're a disrespectful little shit, you know that?"

"Yep."

"Garcia first. She's got a good lead on a fugitive – a real-life, dangerous offender, not some piss-ant pain in some Judge's backside that we got to pretend is important." Art chafed at the politics, letting his feelings out about the Hopkins case. "I don't want Garcia going alone. She's waiting for you in the parking lot. If you're a good boy maybe you'll get lunch out of it."

And so the girlfriend was shuffled to second place again.

Tim accepted the change in plans, headed for the stairs – the elevator had come and gone while Art was talking.

"Hold up. I'm not finished." Art grabbed at the back of Tim's shirt. "Take your rifle."

"Righto," Tim responded, spun around and headed back inside.

* * *

Garcia got her man and Tim didn't even need his rifle. They caught their armed robber napping, literally. His brother-in-law opened the door and invited the Marshals in with no hesitation. Apparently he was tired of his house guest drinking his beer and sleeping in his bed. Garcia's fugitive was snoring loudly, didn't even hear them enter the bedroom, woke to the bad-ass end of a Glock staring him in the face.

"Rise and shine, asshole," Tim said. It was a bit of a let-down after hiking up the adrenalin – a bit like not finding the awesome promised toy in the cereal box, just a tiny cheap piece of plastic that didn't work like it was supposed to. It ended with an uneventful pass-off to the locals.

Garcia laughed at the look on Tim's face, slouched in the passenger seat on the ride back to the courthouse, like a teenage-boy in English class. "You look bored, Gutterson. Not enough shooting for you in the Marshal business?"

Tim grinned. He liked Garcia well enough. She was usually serious, reserved, professional, kept it to business. Today, however, she was punchy coming down from the nerves of a big arrest and in a rare talkative mood. Tim joined in. "Squirrel hunting is more excitin'," he drawled, cranking up the hillbilly. "I didn't get to shoot nothin'. Woulda been nice to fire off a round or two. I miss the noise."

Garcia was from the southwest and Raylan and Tim's backwoods Kentucky act never failed to amuse her. The two of them would ham it up for a laugh whenever the opportunity presented itself.

"I _never_ mind it boring," she commented with feeling. "And I appreciate you riding along – it took some of the edge off. I'll give you credit on the report."

"Nah." Tim shrugged at the offer. "All I did was wave my muzzle in the guy's face. I didn't have to do any of the leg work. This one's all yours."

"It was a marvelous muzzle wave, though, really," she teased.

"Well, I reckon it was worth not shootin' the asshole just to see Art's face light up like the Fourth of July when we get back with a live one for a change." Tim waited a moment – timing was everything – added, "But, shit, shootin' him would've been fun just to listen to the squealin'."

She started giggling at the ridiculousness. "Art will be proud."

"I aim to please."

"Interesting choice of words." She was feeling relaxed now and waded carelessly into personal territory. "You miss the Army?"

Tim had stopped wondering that after his first year back in the world. He could never figure it out in his own mind – at least not definitely enough to satisfy himself. He side-stepped the question with one of his stock answers to avoid sinking back into that bog of doubt. "I miss desert cammo."

"Desert cammo?"

"It was a good color for me. And I miss the Oakleys. I don't get to wear sunglasses enough here. Should've joined the FBI."

"I thought Rangers did a lot of _night_ ops?" Her tone said 'gotcha.'

"Oh, look who knows so much," he taunted. "Yeah okay, so Rangers do a lot of night ops.  I still miss the Oakleys."

She returned to the point, pressed the question, curious, "Do you miss it though, seriously?"

"What? Sneaking around in a country where nobody wants you, hoping not to get shot or taken prisoner and tortured? Who _wouldn't_ miss it? On the down side, though, you do get a lot of grit in your underwear face-dragging through the desert. Seriously uncomfortable."

Garcia caught the edge in the tone, backed off. "Ha, my vacations are worse than that. Two brats with rapid fire demands and me with a rampant yeast infection swimming in the ocean."

Tim wiped a hand across his mouth, nodded in appreciation of the problem. "I'll just have to take your word on that one."

Back at the courthouse, Tim got out the passenger side, walked around and held out a hand for the keys. She dropped them in his open palm with a half-smirk and a query. "Going somewhere already? We just got back."

"Tell Art I'm gone to talk to the girlfriend in the Hopkins case. I'll be a couple hours."

"Have fun."

"Oh yeah."

"And thanks again."

"Not a problem."

* * *

Donny Hopkins made bail. No one was surprised – it wasn't set very high. He had no money and a girlfriend and family in and around Richmond, Kentucky where he was from, and the Circuit Court Judge didn't think he was a likely runner. He just lacked that kind of ambition. The only thing he worked hard at was finding enough money for his next score and his last next score's financing was coming from a series of sloppy break-ins. And the last break-in was at a nice house on the outskirts of Lexington with a tricky silent alarm where he and a similarly motivated accomplice had gone from sloppy to sloppy _and_ unlucky when they killed the parrot that lived there, accidentally knocking over the cage and frightening it to death. It was the beloved pet of a District Court Judge. The Judge was upset.

The Judge was more upset with the low-ball bail and when Donny Hopkins failed to appear at his trial date, the Judge went on a rampage.

Usually the file on a small-time junkie runner like Donny would find itself in the hands of the local Sheriff who would keep half an eye out on a slow day, or at most the folder might make it to the bottom of a pile on the desk of one of the Marshals where it would magically never get off the bottom, as if a card shark were shuffling and keeping it there on purpose. There were better hands to bet your time on if you were a Marshal, hands with armed robbery in the cards or murder or kidnapping or trafficking or grand-theft auto or assault – assault on an exotic bird didn't count – and so a small-time junkie runner just couldn't compete for anyone's attention. Unless an angry Judge got involved, which he did, and now the file kept finding its way back onto the Bureau Chief's desk and the Bureau Chief kept finding a pile to set it on, on one of his deputies' desks, on the top. It had made the rounds in the Lexington office, a lame hand to have to play.

It was Tim's turn to fold the hand but he decided to play it. He anteed up – a half-hour drive south-west of Lexington to speak with the girlfriend. She had already spoken to a local deputy but that wasn't good enough for the Judge who wanted a Federal US Marshal on it. Apparently Marshals were better at interviewing girlfriends. Tim wasn't sure how he could put a different spin on 'I don't know where he is' but he thought for Art's sake he'd better try.

"I don't know where she is," the landlord said.

That was a different spin, thought Tim. "But she was here just last week. A deputy spoke with her."

"I know she was here _last_ week, but she ain't here _this_ week. I kicked her out. She and that junkie boyfriend haven't paid rent since Christmas. I ain't running a fucking charity house."

Tim looked up the street, grateful that at least it was a nice day. "Any idea where she might've gone?"

"She ain't from around here. She's from way over in Irvine."

The way he said it might make you think she'd need a passport and an overnight flight to get there from here, but Tim knew the area well enough. Irvine was only twenty minutes down the road. He smiled half-heartedly, said, "Okay, thanks for your help," pulled out a card and handed it to the landlord. "If you see her or her boyfriend, could you give us a call?"

"He in trouble?"

"Yep."

"No surprise there."

Tim turned and trotted down the steps and strolled back to the car. He checked his watch and decided he'd have just enough time to get back to Lexington before his favorite coffee shop closed at 5pm. The girlfriend could wait until tomorrow.

A half hour and a coffee stop later he walked back into the office.

Art was pouring himself the last cup from the pot in the kitchenette, eyed Tim's take-out with envy. "Any luck?" he asked tiredly.

"Nope. She's gone."

"Gone, or gone?"

"Gone. Landlord threw her out."

"Shit," Art cursed. "I'm so sick of this case. Could you please just find this guy and shoot him so he stays put?"

"Could I have that on paper…with your signature at the bottom?"

They both turned with a commotion at the door and watched as the parrot-mourning Judge pushed his way in and looked around.

"Double shit," said Art.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

* * *

"Make up your mind, will you? Yesterday before I left you said I should drop everything and find that, quote, boil-on-your-butt, jacked-up junkie, Donny Hopkins, unquote, so you could get that, quote, self-righteous, parrot-loving, idiot judge, unquote, off your back." Tim stood with his arms folded tightly, his mouth barely moving as he spoke, jaw clenched, his eyes boring into the shiny top of his boss's head. Some days he got a little frustrated being the junior Marshal, constantly pulled and pushed into any slot that needed a warm body. One size fits all. Sure, it was a rite of passage, and a right pain in the ass.

Art was searching under piles of papers on his desk for something, came up for air to reply, "Yeah, well, that was yesterday. I was annoyed. Now it's today, and today," he plucked a printout of an email from under the morning paper and handed it to Tim, "I'm saying that you are to drop everything because you are now the personal slave of Deputy van Hassel and his partner from the Vegas Bureau."

Tim eyed the paper Art was waving, finally reached out tentatively and took it. "And you're telling me he's a bigger hassle than the Judge?" he questioned, leaning now, back at the doorway for a quick escape. "What's he doing in Lexington?"

"He's been tracking a hard case wanted in more states than I've worked in. So, yes, he's a bigger hassle. Lousy pun, by the way."

"It's early. Haven't started my second pot of coffee yet." Tim read through the email. "So the guy they're after's got family in Kentucky. Sounds like a desperate quest to me. This van Hassel dude run out of leads?"

"Probably exactly how it is. There's been one," Art facetiously wiggled a pinky finger to illustrate, "highly questionable report. A sighting near London. I think someone's hoping for some reward money. Anyway, he just needs a tour guide."

"Why me?"

"You, my son," Art replied, "were requested."

Tim's eyebrows responded to the statement.

Art smiled in return. Tim's shoulders sagged.

"You want to hear what I'm not telling you?" Art asked.

"No," Tim moped. "Okay, sure, what?"

"Van Hassel was a captain in the Reserves before quitting to join the Marshals Service. Never in a war zone is what I've heard. I suspect he just loves the idea of having a former Army Sergeant to boss around." Art's face softened up a bit with some well-meant sympathy. "Sorry."

Tim shrugged. "Officers I can handle. I've had practice. Fortunately I won't have to say much, just 'yessir.'" The word came across more indolent than the lean.

Art pointed an authoritative finger. "You will not call him 'sir.' I forbid it."

"Yessir," Tim snapped still leaning.

"Smartass little shit." Art muttered then stretched leisurely. "They should show up around ten. Commandeer the board room so he can bring you up to date on the case."

"Yessir."

"And get the hell out of my office," Art said mildly.

"Yessir, right away, sir. Getting the hell outta your off…"

"TIM!"

* * *

Van Hassel was a cup of needed coffee that you take a sip of only to discover the cream's sour and then the taste stays with you for the rest of the day. He was that aggravating. And he winked a lot. It was creepy.

He was desperate to get Tim talking, desperate and persistent. He tried a different approach every fifteen minutes, attempting to find the door that opened into the storeroom of anecdotes about the war in Afghanistan that he was sure existed in Tim's head. He was equally sure that Tim had stacked those stories away neatly within reach and was just dying to pull them out and parade them for the next person who showed some interest. His efforts became more obvious as the morning wore on. It was almost comical, like sour cream in your coffee.

"The military is an interesting experience, isn't it? Not at all like real life," he said, a wink for conspiracy, mutual understanding.

Tim was happy to disappoint him and not talk about the war. He resisted stoically. "This is real life?" he countered, pointing at the table to the here and now. "Are you sure?"

Van Hassel winked again. "I get it. Good answer. Into the heart of man, into the heart of darkness. Which is more real, right? Civilization or the blood and guts of war?"

Tim stared at him, stared back at the report on the table that they were discussing, took a deep and calming breath. "So, what's your plan here in Kentucky? You really think you're going to find something on your guy?"

They discussed their options, identified the most promising first step in the hunt. Tim pulled up a map on a screen and pointed out the location of the supposed sighting then the location of the relatives. He suggested talking to the family first since the man who reported seeing their fugitive was known for being drunk most days of the week.

"I always enjoyed the orienteering exercises in the military," van Hassel interrupted. "Did you ever have to go into enemy territory, map and compass, rifle and water?"

"GPS is a wonderful thing," Tim replied curtly.

After this hundredth attempt at breaching the walls, van Hassel's partner intervened. "Leave the kid alone, Van. It's clear he doesn't want to talk about it."

Tim's feelings weren't in the least hurt when van Hassel decided the ex-Army Ranger wasn't as interesting as he'd hoped.

His partner suggested, and Tim suspected it was for his benefit, that they didn't need any help driving to London to interview the fugitive's family after lunch. Tim called ahead to get them an introduction to someone in the London Police Department and waved them out the door with a promise to compile a list of known heroin dealers in the area that might be a possible contact point for their man since sooner or later he would have to sell the drugs that he was apparently in possession of. Tim didn't tell them that he'd already done it before they arrived that morning.

The case _was_ interesting though, and Tim finished reading through the files as he tidied up the conference room. Simon Tislow, van Hassel's fugitive, was part of a counterfeit ring, lately of Las Vegas. Bored with the fake money racket, he took some of his funny twenties and bought himself a suitcase full of heroin. The twenties were from a rejected lot and one of the drug dealers was nabbed trying to spend some. The rest of the gang came after Tislow, guns blazing, bodies bleeding on the street, and the counterfeiter-turned-drug-dealer did a disappearing act, on the run somewhere in the fifty states, or forty-eight anyway. Tislow definitely trumped Hopkins.

Tim unpinned the last of the items from the board, tossed everything into a box and carried it out to his desk.

Art was standing in his doorway surveying his domain, watched Tim walk past and couldn't resist a comment. "Got rid of him in a hurry. Maybe you could work your magic on Judge Taylor for me next time he comes in."

Tim looked over. "Jesus Christ, Art, if you want me back on the Hopkins case just say so. I'll drop everything I'm doing and get right on it." With that he dropped the box with a thud onto the floor behind his desk, actions to the words.

"Bit grumpy, are we?" Art strolled over, arms crossed.

"I've been dodging questions all morning about Afghanistan. Yeah, I'm grumpy."

Tim didn't think it prudent to mention Raylan's contribution to his bad mood – that Raylan had interrupted his quality time with van Hassel, waving him out in the middle of the meeting to cajole and wheedle until Tim caved and made a second phone call to his FBI friend, this time for the exact whereabouts of Sammy Tonin. Give the kid a box of matches and let him go play. Tim wanted to cuff himself to Raylan and guard that precious bit of trust that he'd handed over. Instead he was chained to the office, repeating more Hail Marys. He felt like he was left holding a butterfly mine which sometime in the next 24 hours was going to detonate and do some damage. He was grumpy and edgy and worried about his friend's ass and worried about Raylan and what Raylan was probably doing that he shouldn't be doing.

Art at least got the broad picture, held out a hand, placating. "Why don't you hand over that Hopkins folder? I'll pass it along. You've done your bit."

"You know," Tim hesitated, "I think I could use a mindless distraction about now. Why don't I run with it – for the day anyway. I'll see what I can find."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, it'll be relaxing. And it'll get me away from van Hassel," _and Raylan_ , he thought but didn't say, still clutching that butterfly mine.

"All right." Art turned to head back to his office.

"And you said I could shoot him if I find him," Tim added, fake enthusiasm.

"I was kidding and you know it."

"Do I?"

"Tim."

Tim grinned in response to the single-syllable threat and did a search for the name Dempsey in the vicinity of Irvine, a list of cold calls for Donny Hopkins' girlfriend. After some filtering, he narrowed it down to four possible addresses, a start, scribbled them on a piece of paper, slipped it into the case folder and stood up to let Art know he was heading out. He was stopped cold by Raylan's appearance at the door, his face a comical mix of annoyed and sheepish, escorted into the office between two FBI agents.

Art hurried out, shields up. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"Which one of your men is Deputy Gutterson?" asked the lead agent, flashing his badge importantly. "I have some questions for him."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tim muttered when Art looked his way. He dropped the Hopkins file back on his desk.

The butterfly mine had detonated.

* * *

"Well, next time you need a favor, the answer's _no_ ," Tim grumbled at Raylan then sank angrily into his chair, flexing his hand, happy to find he hadn't lost any digits when this shit with Sammy Tonin blew up. Agent Barkley was gone but the threat to Tim's friend lingered like gun residue. He prayed she would dodge the bullet coming her way.

Tim watched Raylan saunter out, sat staring through the doors at the empty hall long minutes after Raylan had disappeared. He spun abruptly around in his chair to face the window, held his phone gingerly, finally dialed. He tried to think of an appropriate apology while it rang, some way to make it up to his friend. It went to voice mail and he stumbled through a message then tossed the phone back on his desk, fuming.

"Coffee," he stated aloud.

Rachel looked over, "Pardon?"

"I'm going for coffee, you want anything?"

"I'm fine."

Tim stood up and jammed an arm in his jacket sleeve then another, swiped his phone and wallet off of his desk.

"Where're you going?" Art called out.

"I'm going for coffee," Tim repeated more loudly this time.

Art pointed at the kitchenette with the pen he was holding. "We got coffee. Fresh pot."

Tim eyed the coffee machine like it was threatening him. His hand twitched and he appeared to be contemplating pulling his sidearm and shooting it. "Who made it?" he demanded.

Rachel pointed at Nelson and Nelson raised a tentative hand, taking ownership of the brew.

"I'm going out for coffee," Tim repeated once more and strode angrily toward the door.

Art had gotten up from behind his desk, ambled out. He addressed Tim's retreating back, a piercing bit of wisdom. "Lord, protect me from my friends; my enemies I can handle."

Tim stopped, turned around, false smile. "You want something?"

"Sure – large, please."

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Tim peered through the doors to the bullpen before pushing them open and stepping warily inside. It was Friday, but that didn't guarantee a good day. Raylan wasn't in; that was an encouraging start. Van Hassel was sitting in Art's office, chatting. Art had that smile greased on his face, the one he usually kept in reserve for AUSAs and Internal Affairs investigators. Tim looked over at them, surprised by his own equanimity at the prospect of spending another day with the Las Vegas Marshal, surprised again when he had to suppress an urge to giggle. It was relief maybe; van Hassel was manageable and temporary. He let his eyes continue a sweep of the room – no Feds, no judges – and they settled finally on Rachel.

Rachel amused herself watching his cautious entry, snorted when his inspection reached her. "Stand down, soldier," she mocked him. "I cleared the office this morning – checked every corner. You're safe."

"You're so funny," he snarled.

She smirked and waved him over. "You're so pathetic."

"You have no idea. I considered calling in sick."

"Art would believe you if you claimed _chicken_ pox. I'd back you up."

"Piss off."

"Is this guy really that bad?"

Tim virtually tiptoed over, nabbed a chair and slid into it. "Nah. Him I can handle." He jabbed a thumb toward the Chief's office. "It's him and Raylan at the same time I haven't got patience for. Throw in angry Art after a visit from Judge Taylor and a couple of asshole Feds and I'm ready to apply at McDonalds."

Rachel offered a smile in sympathy.

"Anyway," Tim continued, "van Hassel says he'll be on an afternoon flight out of here if this witness isn't convincing."

"What do you think?"

Tim shrugged, "The guy's a drunk. It's a dead end. It's like they're trout fishing in a slurry pond."

"Still," she commented, practical, "it'd be nice to get your name on that arrest. Tislow's not top fifteen but he's up there."

"Uh-huh." Tim's one eyebrow broke an altitude record, would have needed oxygen if it had stayed up there any longer. "You get an E for effort, trying to cheer me up and all, but there's no way in hell I'll be getting any credit on this one and you know it."

She couldn't deny it. "Maybe if you let Tislow shoot you?" she suggested.

"That might do it."

"Tim!" A shout from across the room, Art waving.

Tim turned when he heard his name, stood up to go. "See you later."

"Be a good boy."

"Aren't I always?"

"Tcha."

* * *

Tim and the two Las Vegas Marshals had made a quick stop for coffee on the outskirts of London and were heading back to the car when van Hassel's phone rang. He walked quickly to an empty part of the parking lot to take it, leaving Tim standing with the other Deputy, Ben Caldwell, a man somewhere between Tim and van Hassel in age and more congenial than both of them put together.

"Sorry for all the prying." Caldwell spoke in a low voice for Tim's ears only.

Tim turned up one side of his mouth, trying to be friendly. "It's okay," he grunted. "I get it a lot."

"I'll bet." Deputy Caldwell did a circle, admiring the hills and the green.

"Bit different from Nevada," Tim commented.

"It's my first time here. Have you been to Vegas?"

A grin that suggested some wicked and amusing memories seeped down from Tim's hairline. "Just once. I was in California for some training." He lifted his right arm, showed a small tattoo. "Souvenir."

Caldwell chuckled. "You never leave Vegas without something to show for it."

"Rarely winnings."

"That's true. They keep your money." Caldwell took a deep breath. "It's beautiful here. Afghanistan's more like Nevada, I'd guess."

Tim made a face that he knew not many people could read, except maybe a few of his army buddies still breathing, maybe Rachel. He thought maybe his girlfriend, too, and that got his mind tripping down a different path, different memories. He had dropped her at the airport and she'd said, _don't call_. It wasn't angry or an ending, just a suggestion. Things had moved along at a run and when it came time for her trip she'd decided to use it as a test. _Don't call_ , she said, _I'll be fine._ _Take some time and decide if this is good for you. Just pick me up when I get back?_ Of course he would, but she looked uneasy, hopeful but not confident, like she was gambling on a weak hand. He was determined to call her bluff. But not for the usual reasons. He was going to call her bluff, just to show her she had a winner.

"So, what do you think?" Caldwell interrupted Tim's thoughts. The Vegas Marshal gestured vaguely, looking discouraged and tired, a bad night's sleep in an unfamiliar hotel bed.

Tim guessed he was asking the same question that Rachel had asked earlier – what did Tim think of the witness. "It's a long shot, but guys have been hunted down on slimmer leads than this." He wondered that he was saying this to a man with more years than he had chasing fugitives.

"But you're not going to bet on it, are you?"

Tim grinned but didn't exactly answer. "You've been in Vegas a while?"

"I don't gamble, if that's what you're asking. Got a wife, kids, mortgage. I steer clear of the casinos."

Tim nodded, turned to watch van Hassel pacing a tight circle. "Who's he calling all hush-hush and agitated? His wife? Got some phone sex going on?"

Caldwell barked a laugh making him even more likeable. "Nah. Probably his bookie."

* * *

"No luck," Art said, not a question, it was obvious by the way they walked in.

"He gave us a line on Elvis," Tim replied. "I was thinking I should follow up on it this afternoon."

Tim and Art shared the mirth; van Hassel wasn't amused; Caldwell turned away to hide a smirk.

Flicking his wrist clear of his suit jacket, van Hassel checked the time. "Come on, Ben, we can make the 4:15, get the hell out of here." He addressed Tim next, "You catch even a whiff of Tislow, I'm your first phone call, got it?"

They shook Art's hand, collected their files and left.

"Well, that was fun." Art slapped Tim on the back. "Thanks for keeping the sarcasm to a minimum. What do you got for the rest of the day?"

"Hopkins?"

"Suits me."

Tim didn't bother getting comfortable in the office, picked up the Hopkins file and left for some fresh air and solitude, another chance at a twenty minute meditation session behind the wheel.

He had just settled onto the Interstate when Art called him back. LPD had a hostage situation at a jewelry store and were requesting an extra rifle from the Marshals Service, one with Deputy Gutterson attached, please. They were hoping for the high card in this round, pulling out their ace in the hole. Tim was getting a name with the Eastern Kentucky law enforcement crowd – the sniper – one good shot after another, and it didn't take too many of those to put him top on the list of guys to call when a particular kind of job needed doing. Why _hope_ for a clean shot when you could get one, guaranteed? He didn't particularly relish the title, but he understood the need.

He pulled off onto an emergency turnaround and sped back to Lexington, leaving the Hopkins case for another day.

"Did you miss me?" Art greeted when Tim appeared beside him at the scene.

"I tried to."

"I should just keep you on a leash," Art joked. "A nice short tether."

"You might want to get a muzzle with it," Tim warned.

Art chuckled, handed Tim his rifle and led him to the man in charge of the operation.

The Commander of the Emergency Response Unit was grateful for an experienced marksman, tucked his ego behind his bullet-proof vest and smiled obligingly. "You decide where you want to set up," he offered. "My guy is not happy with the angles available. We're hoping you might find a position you can work with."

Tim took the radio and earpiece offered, wishing it was an earbud for an IPod instead, maybe some old Motown on the playlist. He could handle some R&B this afternoon, mood lifting stuff, even the sad songs. One of the guys he did Basic with had introduced them all to the sounds of his home city, Detroit, and it was hard not to catch his enthusiasm. Tim smiled, remembering – a nothing Private, young with a wide white-toothed grin, dancing in the barracks to Marvin Gaye. And the smile lingered as he listened to his instructions then moved away to set up.

The Commander noticed the expression on the sniper's face and shivered, thinking, _cold-blooded fucker_.

Tim's thoughts stayed with Mr. Motown as he hunted up and down the street for a good line. He was pretty sure the guy had stayed regular Army, likely left after his six and went home. Maybe he was working for the Tonins now, part of the Detroit crime family. Wouldn't that be ironic?

A wall hiding a parking lot provided a good angle and perch. Tim borrowed Art's cap to keep the hair out of his face, propped one foot on the handle of a dumpster, the other in a chink in the brick, wedged himself in place, and set the rifle along the top. He peered through the scope then looked over and gave Art the thumbs up – it was a good position, just not one he could hold for hours.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Tim didn't have to hold the pose too long. One of the hostages panicked and tried to get to the door after another half hour of negotiations. The gunman lifted his revolver, shot at the runner and missed; Tim pulled the trigger at the same moment he got the go ahead and didn't miss. The bullet smashed through the glass, smashed into the man's head and the day's drama ended for everyone. Tim lifted the rifle, uncramped his legs and dropped back to the pavement.

Art came around the wall and watched Tim stretch then pop the joint in a knee. "How many more years do you think you got before you can't do that anymore?" he asked.

Tim looked over, blank, shrugged.

Art checked his watch. "I think it's time for a drink. It's been a hell of a week. What do you say we drop our shit back at the office and round up some bodies for a trip to the bar?" Art waited for the nod or the shrug, knew better than to expect a conversation from his deputy this soon after a trigger pull.

Tim just handed Art his hat back.

"I'll settle up with LPD. Meet me at the car."

* * *

The first sip of bourbon was always the best, the bit of spice and burn that worked its way up to the top of your head and down your throat to your toes, like pouring liquid metal into a mold. Tim often felt, especially when he downed the first shot in one quick gulp, that if someone were to break him open there'd be a perfect Tim statue made of solid bourbon inside. Nothing would bother that Tim, hard and seamless – not Raylan, not the war, not the latest scumbag he'd had to handle, not his girlfriend, though she bothered him in a different way.

Raylan was nowhere to be found and the rest of the office had already cleared out, so only Rachel and Art were at the bar with Tim. They were discussing her case, their voices taking on the quality of airport announcements, indistinguishable from the bar noises, easy to tune out, and Tim let his thoughts run, tripping into his girlfriend again. He was surprised by the sudden revelation that he missed her. After she left on her trip he had followed her orders and not called and had decided at some point, drinking a beer alone on his couch, that he didn't like the pressure of all the expectations that came with the warmth and the smiles and the touches. The uncertainty of the whole thing made him anxious. He worked hard these days to avoid those feelings and was considering pushing the whole mess, good and bad, out of his life. But now that he was into the second week of her time away he was feeling a different sort of anxious and he needed to see her, safe and nearby, safe and within reach. A new anxiety.

He wondered if this was normal or just his problem. And who would he talk to about this stuff? Rachel maybe, but not with Art around.

"Tim, got any plans for the weekend?" Art corralled him into the conversation.

Tim sat forward, back into their circle. "I got tickets to the race tomorrow night, going with a couple of friends."

"What race?" Rachel asked.

"NASCAR," Art replied, full Talladega twang. "It's in Richmond this weekend, isn't it? That's a long drive."

Tim grinned in anticipation. "Worth it. Only the best drinking game ever – down a shot every time someone turns left."

Art did the math. "400 laps – that's a lot of left turns. Shit."

"Shit-faced," Tim corrected.

Rachel stared. "You don't really, do you?"

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

It was Sunday around noon and a day for doing nothing. The NASCAR race was exciting, a few good smash ups and some raucous company, a complete escape for eighteen hours, a step back in time, but Tim was glad to be home again and alone. He took his turn sleeping in the car on the trip back, slept another few hours on the couch when he fell in the door at 8am and woke up mid-morning ready to gnaw on the pillow to fill the hole in his stomach. He ignored the pangs, strapped on his shoes and headed out the door.

There was something perversely satisfying about proving that he still had it, that ability to go hungry and get the job done, and he ran hard for over an hour just to remember what it felt like. Stopping at a bakery on the way home, he bought a coffee and a dozen sticky buns and ate three before he got to his street. It was cheating. There was always lots of food available for hungry soldiers on an Army base after a mission, but you didn't get fresh baking and gourmet coffee.

Exhausted, he dragged his feet down the sidewalk, soaked through, sated, the week forgotten. Now all he needed was a gallon of water, more coffee and a smile from his girl. That would do it to get him charged for Monday. But she wasn't due back until tomorrow night – he told her he'd pick her up at the airport – so for now he'd have to settle for water and coffee and another sticky bun. He reached in the bag for one and stuffed it in his mouth to free up a hand for his keys, wiping the icing on his sweats as he walked up the steps to the door.

Rachel was sitting on his porch. She startled him. He jumped. She mocked, "A little tense, Gutterson?"

He threw her a dirty look, ineffective with a face full of pastry, then finished unlocking the door and pushed it open. He pulled the bun out of his mouth so he could speak, offered a greeting and an invitation, "Hey...coffee?"

She nodded lightly, smiled heavily. "I wasn't sure you were back yet."

"You could've let yourself in and made a pot."

"Maybe I would've a few months ago, but I know you've got a girlfriend. I didn't want to just walk in."

"She's away," Tim stated then tried to figure out how Rachel knew when he'd been so careful to keep it his secret. He didn't want to jinx it by talking about it and then have to explain to everyone why it didn't work out…again. He thought he caught a bit of accusation in Rachel's tone and felt bad. She was the one person he could've told.

"It's okay. I get it." She said knowingly, reading his thoughts.

_How do they do that – women?_ He held the door open and gestured for her to join him in the house, held the bakery bag open to tempt her as she passed him. When she reached in and took one he knew for sure – another fight with Joe. If it was trouble with Nick she'd be too agitated to eat. It was always one or the other and easy to figure out which within a few minutes with just a couple of simple tests. It was definitely Joe today. She looked more sad than exasperated.

She leaned comfortably against the counter while he fixed a pot and peppered him with questions about his girlfriend now that the secret was loose. He made up for his weeks of holding out on her by answering them all good-naturedly.

"You're dating your therapist?" Rachel looked horrified. "Tim, that's just not a good idea."

"I'm sorry, is there a rulebook that I missed?"

Rachel was going to say something but switched it up before it came out, her mouth contorting to form a different word than it was set up for. "I must have missed it, too. I _thought_ I got it right. Shows how much I know."

Things were sounding terminal today, not just discontented. "You throwing in the cards already? That just doesn't seem like you," he commented, not in judgment but as a statement of her character.

"Sometimes you have to cut your losses and run."

_Leave no man behind_ , he wanted to say, but wisely didn't because she was right. Sometimes you had to cut your losses and run. "Have another bun. I'm just gonna go upstairs and change." A quick rinse, clean clothes, he came down and poured two mugs and handed one over, led her back out to the porch. "You do what you got to do," he finally responded, addressing the real topic of the morning. "You're smart – you'll do the right thing. If he's not making you feel good…" A shrug for the inevitable.

She gave him a look of gratitude for the comment, appreciating that he'd only added sugar to the coffee. Her thoughts were already lingering on how to leave, she just needed to convince herself. "Since when are you an expert on relationships?" she quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

"I'm not. I'm a fucking idiot about relationships. Just ask my girlfriend."

"I will when I meet her," Rachel hinted.

They sat quietly on the porch for most of an hour until the sun slid off its apex, dipping below the roof and blasting Tim in the eyes. He got up to get his sunglasses from the table inside the door and she stood, too.

"I got to go," she said.

"Where you going?"

"Home." She started slowly down the steps, procrastinating.

He wanted to ask her more about Joe, wanted to talk to her about his own confused feelings about his situation, but he didn't. The day fought him. He plunked himself on the top step, dropped his hands between his knees and watched her progress. "Didn't feel like church today?"

She turned when her foot landed on the walkway. "No – I'm fresh out of prayers. Didn't feel like shooting today?" He grinned for her and a smile a touch more genuine than the first one she gave him that morning reflected back. She shook her head. "I'm getting worried about the drinking, mister."

"No. Stop. You don't need to worry about me, too. I'm fine."

"Mm-hmm."

"Really. I'm fine." He had somebody else worrying about him now. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and pulled on it uncertainly.

"Something _you_ need to talk about?" She tried to see through him.

"This is your morning for grievances," he teased. "I only bitch at work."

"Well I'm through talking. It's ridiculous. I can't change it, so what's the point."

"You're welcome to sit longer."

"And that's my problem right there. I'm not even trying to do anything about it anymore." She growled at it, whatever it was that brought her to Tim's house this morning, then shrugged. "See you tomorrow. Thanks for sharing the space."

With his eyes he followed her reluctant movement down the sidewalk, the invisible weight dragging behind, slowing her footsteps. Or maybe she was just enjoying the sunshine he hoped foolishly.

* * *

Tim didn't bother buying a coffee on the way into work Monday morning, anticipating checking in briefly with Art then getting a car and heading to Irvine early, and with any luck, tracking down Hopkins' girlfriend. He planned on grabbing a coffee from his favorite place on the way out of town, a little road trip beverage. He was actually looking forward to it. Not two steps into the office and he could sense there was trouble and it had arrived ahead of him.

Art hung up his phone loudly, strode into the bullpen from his desk, turned Tim around and pushed him back out the doors. "Find Raylan."

"Where is he?"

"If I knew that I would've used a different word than 'find.' I would've said 'get' Raylan or 'meet' Raylan. Call him and find out where he is and get him here fast and don't let him out of your sight."

"What did he do now?"

Art appeared a bit frantic, not a look he wore well. Pissed off was always better for his complexion. "Gary Hawkins was found shot dead on Winona's front lawn this morning. I'll give you two seconds to come up with the name of their prime suspect."

"Shit," Tim said dully, not believing for a minute that Raylan was responsible but uncomfortably aware of how it would play in the mind of the homicide detective in charge of the investigation. He pulled out his phone and headed downstairs. He regretted now not stopping for coffee. Clearly, it was going to be one of those days.

And the Hopkins case went back to the bottom of the pile.

"I'm at a crime scene. I'll be there shortly," Raylan snapped and hung up.

Tim waited for Raylan in the parking lot, escorted him up to the office to his desk and sat back to watch the circus. Art, the ringleader, would call Tim over between acts. They were short a clown so Tim slipped into the role and helped the show along. He took the guys from LPD Homicide downstairs for coffee and entertained them while Art and Raylan handled the Feds, then came back up for Raylan, took him downstairs again and set him free, leaving him to do his tight-rope act on his own. Tim and Art continued the clown routine, juggling and honking horns as a diversion from Raylan's antics on the high-wire.

There was a lull mid-afternoon. Tim looked hopelessly at the document he was told to complete, Raylan's activity timeline for Gary's murder investigation. He had a title, a date – the rest was blank. He let out a sigh and went to talk to Art.

Art was just sitting, and from the doorway where Tim paused then leaned it looked like the Chief was contemplating the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, his liquor cabinet.

"Go on, then," Tim urged. "I won't leave you to drink alone."

"If it was just you and me, I'd be tempted," Art grumbled. "But we've got too much company today. Has anyone else showed up? I half expect the Secret Service to come in and inform me that one of my Deputies is involved in a plot to kill the President. Though that'd likely be you, not Raylan. It'd be a change, and a change is as good as a rest, they say. Idiots."

Tim started chuckling, fully appreciating Art's frustration and the way he handled it, all grace and grumping.

Art caught the mood swing and chuckled, too. "What do you want?"

"An escape."

"Hopkins?" Art shook his head. "You're like a dog with a bone."

"More like a kid looking for an excuse."

"An excuse for what?"

"For getting out from under the evil glare of Special Agent Barkley," Tim said in a low voice, a subtle head nod to the conference room.

"What an asshole," Art whispered back, then, "Go. I appreciate your help today." He pointed through the glass. "Leave your itinerary with Rachel. With so much going on around here I'm likely to forget about you."

Picking up the folder on Donny Hopkins from his desk, Tim stopped to talk to Rachel, saluted her and slipped out the door. He didn't dare wait for the elevator, afraid of who or what might step off when it arrived at the Marshals' floor, snuck down the stairwell instead, grabbed a car and headed out. The highway beckoned.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

* * *

Tim stopped for a coffee and some road food before he left the city, felt he'd earned it being such a good boy all morning. All he'd had to eat since his bowl of whatever for breakfast was a plateful of bullshit with a side of sarcastic comments that he'd had to chuck raw. That and an orange he'd shared with Art. It was nice to be looking at the Lexington Marshals Office distantly reflected in the rearview mirror. He set his phone on the console, glancing at it occasionally, expecting it to ring, but it didn't and he made it to Irvine without being hauled back to the city and embroiled in somebody else's business.

Now his only business was Donny Hopkins and his girlfriend, and that would be relaxing after the past week.

There was someone willing to talk at each of the four addresses he had for 'Dempsey' but only the last one had anything of value to say. They all knew her, Patricia Dempsey, the girlfriend, Patty, and the way they all described her Tim envisioned a blissful union between her and Donny Hopkins. They were peas in a pod, only she was apparently luckier having never been caught for her illegal activities which, according to her relatives, included trafficking, breaking and entering, theft, possession. She sounded like a lovely girl and Tim couldn't wait to meet her.

The woman at the fourth and last stop was an aunt, a hard shinbone woman with smoking lines and hair that defied gravity. Tim saw a likeness to Dickie Bennett in the styling. Despite the unfavorable visual impression, he liked her the minute she started talking. She was a mickey of scathing humor that made the chore of chasing down Patty a little more palatable.

"Shit, you're not another boyfriend, are you?" She had a voice like the corner drunk; maybe she was the corner drunk. "There's already been one by asking for her."

Tim shook his head, no.

"No, I didn't think so. You don't look the part – too clean cut. You look like a school teacher." She took a closer look at the identification Tim was holding up for her. "Federal US Marshal," she read carefully. "Huh. Patty's in trouble then, I guess."

"Actually, ma'am, it's her boyfriend I'm looking for. Was it Donny Hopkins who came by asking for her?"

"Jesus, I don't know his name. He's a moron. It'd be like giving a name to a post."

Tim smirked, pulled a mugshot out of his jacket, held it up for her. "That him?"

"Look at that. You're carrying a picture of a moron around in your pocket. Yeah, that's him. You got one of the other moron too, the one she was hanging with? He was a bit bigger and meaner looking."

Tim tilted his head and frowned. "He got a name?"

"I call him Post One," she answered wryly, then she nodded at Donny's photo, "and that's Post Two."

Tim tried to keep his face a blank but couldn't help himself and started chuckling. He wiped a hand over his mouth, pulled it back to serious. "Sorry, uh, it's been a crazy day." He started chuckling again.

She grinned along with him. "You want a coffee, Mr. Federal US Marshal?"

Tim wouldn't dare refuse her hospitality and hurt her feelings. She was too much fun. He followed her in and they sat at the kitchen table. It seemed fitting.

"Patty came by last week wanting to stay here a bit. Quickest I ever said 'no.' She may be a little wire of a thing but I'm sure she could haul everything I own out in one load to sell if she had the chance. Always looking for easy cash those kids with the drugs."

Tim did a visual sweep of the room, wondered how much heroin Patty could get if she stole the lot, decided it wouldn't be more than a few day's worth. Sad any way you looked at it.

The aunt lifted a coffee pot off the stove and poured two mugs. It was reheated and thick and bitter and oddly satisfying. Tim had seconds when she offered.

"She and her new boyfriend, or whatever he was, were only going to stay a couple of days, at least that's what she said. They had plans to meet somebody or something."

"Were they driving?"

"How the hell else would they get out here?"

The woman's house was out of town a ways but it didn't seem an undoable walk to Tim. He shrugged.

"It's because they had a car that I told them to go stay at the old house up the hill. No one lives there now and it's never locked. Nothing for them to steal neither, and good riddance to them."

"Do you remember the model of the car?" he prodded. "The color maybe?"

"It looked fairly new – a blue four-door. Couldn't tell you the make. Four tires, though," she added helpfully, holding up four fingers and smirking.

Tim smiled, nodded.

"You have a girlfriend, Marshal?" she asked without preamble.

The unexpected question surprised an answer out of him. "Yes, ma'am."

"You look kind of lonely. It's hard to tell."

He pulled back from her a bit, screwed up his face at the comment. "She's away."

"That explains it." She narrowed her eyes, a knowing look. "You miss her then. That's what I'm seeing. People are usually better in pairs, even that crazy niece of mine. Though some aren't."

Tim wanted to ask if she were married once or had someone now – no sign of a roommate in the items around the kitchen or sitting room, no wedding ring – but it didn't feel right prying even if she seemed to think it okay to take liberties with his personal life.

He finished his coffee and thanked her for the information, got back in his car, jotted a few notes then followed her directions off the main route onto a winding back road and up the hill. After driving for half an hour Tim realized he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere. He had definitely not passed the house the woman had described for him and the road dead-ended, in more ways than the obvious. The car rolled to a stop and he found himself facing an old graveyard beyond a gravel turnaround. There was still time to the day and the sun was warm and he couldn't resist the urge to get out and walk around the place. It looked peaceful. _Bucolic_ , he thought to himself, dredging up the word from somewhere, wondering who had come up with such a stupid mix of letters to describe a rural scene. It sounded more like a disease with a nasty cough and open sores, not a description of beautiful countryside.

Tim was distracted from his thoughts on the English language by the name on one old grave marker – S. Tislow. He considered calling van Hassel just to rile him up – _found your man_ – but that would only cause trouble for Art so he settled for pulling his phone and taking a picture then continued his tour through the rows.

Miljana was visiting graves, too. He was going to see her later at the airport. She'd taken her mother on a trip to Serbia for her birthday. It was undoubtedly a bitter-sweet trip home for Mrs. Cajic, some living smiles, some ghost smiles, not a fair share of happy memories. Good memories were spare in that part of the world; fate dealt them out with a miserly hand. Miljana's mother wanted to see where her sister was buried, wanted to say good-bye properly to the woman who had survived the breaking up of Yugoslavia only to be killed in the Kosovo War, gambling her life to stay in her home. Miljana's father had gambled too, on a new life and a new home in America, and now Miljana, in turn, was gambling her happiness on Tim while helping him deal with the effects of another war in another part of the world. He knew she worried about whether she could play two hands at once and do either justice. The outcome depended mostly on him and he felt some days like folding the hand for her.

Miljana's aunt had drawn the Ace of Spades; maybe Miljana had the Queen of Hearts. Today, Tim was chasing the Joker, or maybe he was the Joker.

He let out a single mirthless snort of laughter thinking about how the cards fell, then he turned abruptly and strode quickly to the car when he started thinking about the graves he had yet to visit to make his good-byes. It made him feel like a coward. The tires kicked up gravel as he backed the car around, done with his tour, and drove back down the hill.

* * *

He took two more wrong turns before he gave up and stopped at a house to ask directions. Male pride, be damned. If he took too much longer to find the Dempsey house he'd have to make another trip back tomorrow.

The next house he passed he saw a woman out front with her son and pulled into the driveway. He stepped out and waved, not wanting to scare them. The woman waved back cautiously; the boy didn't react at all. Tim approached and flashed his identification, the leather case worn now on the edges from the number of times he'd had to yank it out of his pocket. He was surprised when she stiffened slightly, seeing the badge. She reached out possessively for the boy. But the boy shied away from his mother and Tim felt something old and sour roil in his stomach. Something about this picture seemed off. He was suddenly uneasy and had to work to get past the fog of bad feelings. The effort it cost to refocus pushed the Dempsey girl out of his head.

His gut was yelling at him, but he still wasn't confident enough in his job to trust it and act on it. He tried to think what Raylan would do. Tim had the Marshal bit down, but learning to be a lawman, that you got from walking the road and paying out in time. He went with cautious, pulled out his phone, waving it around like he was checking for a signal though he already knew there wasn't one, used the movement to hide his real intent, snapped a picture of the two to capture his unease for later consideration.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but can I use your phone?" he asked casually. "I can't get a signal and I need to check in. I'm up this way looking for a fugitive. I think I made a wrong turn." He gestured helplessly up the road, smiled for the boy and the eyes looking back were lost. "I ended up in a graveyard. Would've made my job easy if he was there, but..."

The woman smiled perfectly. "The phone's in the kitchen. Come on in."

Tim tried to get the boy talking, asking him about school, watching as the mother became more agitated and the boy more withdrawn. Finally she pointed impatiently to the house phone, took the boy by the arm and led him into another room, closing the door.

Deciding he'd better carry through with the ruse, Tim dialed Rachel's number.

"Hey," he said when she answered.

"Tim? Where're you calling from? Everything all right?" Rachel asked.

"Yep, fine. I'm trying to hunt down the old Dempsey place, up the hill from Irvine. Just checking in like you asked."

"I didn't ask."

"I know. It's a long story. I shouldn't be more than another hour, maybe two."

"Okay," she said laughing. "Nice to hear from you though, Tim, really. Sweet of you to call."

"Uh-huh." He hung up when the woman came back in.

"What's the address you're looking for?" she asked curtly.

"The old Dempsey house. Do you know it?"

She shook her head. "We're new here."

"Okay, well, thanks for letting me use your phone."

She was already steering him to the door, dashing Tim's hopes for another glimpse of the boy or maybe the husband. He made a note of the address and left, working to convince himself that he was just spooked from too much thinking in the graveyard. He set his unease about the woman and the boy on the passenger seat with his phone.

He took a new turn off a different road and ten minutes later stopped abruptly when he saw a blue four-door sedan – four tires even – and a house that fit the description that Patty Dempsey's aunt had given him. He backed up and pulled in, stepped cautiously up to the front and knocked. After trying again he walked around to the back.

He cleared the corner of the building and came face-to-face with a girl who could only be Hopkins' better half. She was a wire alright, clearly wired, too.

"Jesus," she yelled, jumped when she saw the Marshal. "Who the fuck are you?"

A man poked his head out from the old barn farther back in the yard, called out impatiently to her, "What the hell are you yelling about now?"

Tim reached softly, slowly to unclip his sidearm when the man strode into view. Tim guessed that this was Post One. _Shit_ , he cursed silently and as silently gave the man a name, _Simon Tislow_.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Tim's next thought was _what the fuck?_ and the one after was that he probably wasn't going to make it to the airport to pick up Miljana. Retreat and regroup? He considered it briefly but Tislow might not be here tomorrow and since he, Tim, was not a soldier anymore, he was going to put his energy into being a damned good Marshal. He would bring Tislow in if he could, and maybe, with any luck, he'd piss off van Hassel in the process, a bonus.

But right now he had to deal with an armed and dangerous fugitive. Diffuse the situation – an obvious first step.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to startle you," he said, speaking to the girl but keeping an eye on the handgun that Tislow was waving around.

"What do you want?" Tislow demanded, taking charge, long aggressive strides to the house.

Tim ignored him, focused on the girl. "I presume you're Miss Dempsey?" he said to Patty, as innocent a face as he could muster for her.

"Uh-huh."

"Your aunt told me I could find you up here. I'm Deputy Marshal Gutterson from the Lexington office." Tim didn't think it prudent to reach into his pocket, so he just slid his jacket a bit to the right and displayed the star on his belt. "I was…"

Tislow stopped a few yards from them, interrupted, raised his gun threateningly to get the attention he wanted. "I asked you once and I'm not asking again – what do you want?"

_You just asked me again, asshole_ , Tim thought derisively, didn't say. A hand went up, placating. "Hey man, calm down," he soothed. "Trust me, you don't want to go threatening a Federal Officer. It means I could arrest you and I don't really want to do that today. It's late and I'm supposed to be at the airport to pick up my girlfriend in a few hours." He turned himself slightly while he talked, setting up to draw on the man. He threw in a few hand waves that said _whatever_ , playing at harmless. "You must be the new boyfriend Patty's aunt told me about?"

There was no answer so Tim soldiered on.

"I'm looking for the _old_ boyfriend, Donny Hopkins." _Look back to the girl; dismiss the threat. Maybe it'll go away on its own._ "Ma'am, you haven't happened to see him lately? Apparently he's looking for you and I need to find him. He missed his court date and the judge whose house he broke into – and whose parrot he killed – is on our asses to pick him up. My boss has sent me all over this part of Kentucky trying to locate you." More detail made a story more convincing. Tim had learned this in his short time as a Marshal – if you can get people bogged down picturing the insignificant little things, they often didn't notice the five-ton weight suspended over their heads ready to drop. "Any idea where Donny is?" He brought his hands up to hips, casual.

Patty shook her head, a lost little lamb. "He's looking for me? I thought he was in jail?"

"Uh, weren't you the one who posted his bail?" Tim asked and slid his hand over his sidearm, unclipping it from the holster, easing it out carefully, while Tislow, his gun arm slowly sinking, had his attention turned to Patty, waiting for her to answer the Marshal's question.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, I guess so, too. Your name's on the court clerk's sheet." Tim kept his eyes on her, anxious to keep Tislow's focus there as well. "That means you paid so he could get out of jail. Did you know that's how it works?"

She shook her head.

"Did you pick him up afterward at the lock-up?"

"No."

"Okay." Tim was trying to get her talking but whatever cocktail of drugs she was on had her as sluggish as… as a _drugged_ lamb. "Listen, if you see him, I'd appreciate a call." Using his left hand he slid a card out of his jacket pocket, handed it over, waving it, another distraction. Look at the shiny thing, people. When she lethargically reached out and took it, he brought his Glock up fast, level, aimed at Tislow's chest. "Drop your gun. Hands up."

Tislow hesitated, but it was too late and he knew it – a missed opportunity. He'd been around enough armed men to know that this Marshal's hands were steady. "Shit," he cursed, made to raise his own weapon again.

"Don't do it, Mr. Tislow," Tim warned. "Toss it."

Tislow huffed, growled. "Aww, fuck it," he cursed and dropped his weapon a few feet in front him. Mostly, folks didn't want to get shot.

"Take two steps back," Tim ordered, "Go on, now."

Tislow obliged.

"Maybe two more. Okay, that's…"

Tim didn't get to finish his instructions. He was frozen in place with his mouth open as he caught the unmistakable sound of a slide being pulled back to chamber a round somewhere behind his head and close. It really wouldn't matter how good a shot the mystery person with the gun was, no one could miss from that distance.

"Donny?" Patty squealed in recognition.

_For fuck's sake_ , Tim cursed loudly in his head then proceeded to chastise himself for thinking that anything could possibly go smoothly this week, especially if last week and this morning were any indicator. He really didn't think Donny was capable of pulling the trigger but it wasn't the kind of thing you gambled on. Clenching his teeth, he mulled his options.

Patty's face ran through an array of expressions, finishing up with an excruciatingly uncomfortable grin, looking like the old prom queen cornered at a school reunion by someone she used to bully, trying desperately and failing to make up for years of torment all with one fake smile. "Oh my God, Donny? What are you doing here?"

"Hey baby, I've been looking for you," Donny cooed, then focused back on Tim. He worked to put some hardness into his voice but it only came out strained, pitched high. "Drop your gun, asshole. What are you, a cop or something?"

"Nope," Tim replied, "Federal Marshal." He chanced a glance back and caught a confused look from Donny.

"A Marshal?"

"And who the fuck are you, weasel?" Tislow demanded, watching the exchange. He decided to take advantage of Tim's precarious situation and took a step toward his revolver lying on the ground between them.

"Stop right there," Tim threatened, undecided yet what to do and keeping his Glock aimed at the Vegas fugitive until he could make up his mind.

Tislow halted, stared, incredulous. "Don't move or what? Or _he'll shoot you_." He gestured at Donny.

"And who the fuck are you?" Donny whined, looking Tislow up and down, his aim wandering carelessly with his eyes, drifting now across the grass.

Tim turned his head a fraction to keep Donny in his periphery and watched his reaction when he gave him the news. "That's Patty's new boyfriend," he answered for Tislow.

"You got a new boyfriend? But honey, I was only gone a few weeks." And he slumped his shoulders in defeat, dropping his gun arm.

He was pitiful and Tim took advantage of it, kicked out a boot hard at Donny's knee and he crumpled in pain. A quick step over and Tim had two handguns and two fugitives. Things were looking up. He dismissed Donny as a threat, cruel maybe but practical, and snapped his service pistol back on Tislow.

A seasoned criminal, Tislow had reacted too, launching himself forward to pick up his revolver after Donny fell.

"Don't," Tim barked out. "I'm a hell of a good shot and that's not bragging – it's a statement of fact."

Tislow's lunge had left him short, hand stretched out but still a foot shy of his goal. He growled, pushed up and back on his knees and glared at his captor.

Flicking the safety on Donny's pistol, Tim tucked it in his pants, idly wondering how he had gotten possession of such a nice handgun. The answer presented itself when yet another man stepped out from the corner of the house at Tim's back, shotgun on his hip.

"Put the gun down Marshal. You might live through the day."

And another man stepped out of the barn, rifle up front and menacing. _Oh for fuck's sake_ , Tim repeated, remembering this man from the list of heroin dealers thought to be in the area that he'd printed for van Hassel. Just one more felon and Tim would have himself a flush.

The sun was setting, focused through the trunks of the trees in the stand beside the property, burning a harsh red across the muzzle of the rifle as the man from the barn came closer. Tim looked at it then closed his eyes. Feds, judges, van Hassel, a pissed off Bureau Chief, anything Raylan could throw at him – all that combined had to be better than this. He might still have a chance to make it to the airport if he played his cards right. Easing up his grip on his gun, Tim held his Glock up by the trigger guard with his ring finger. The stakes were too high this round. He wasn't going to play.

* * *

They shot Donny right there. Tim surprised himself, felt sorry for him.

"The instructions were simple. I give you the gun and you shoot the guy."

"You didn't tell me he was a Marshal. I ain't shooting a Federal. That's like instant death," Donny pointed out reasonably.

"No, you idiot, this is instant death," and the man with the shotgun pulled the trigger, point blank.

Donny fell backward, gasping. Tislow finished the job with a shot to the head. He'd picked up his revolver finally, glaring at Tim all the while. He wasted no time jamming the muzzle up on Tim's forehead next.

Tim could faintly smell the burnt gunpowder lingering and breathed deeply to take in as much of it as he could. He'd always enjoyed it and tried to fill his consciousness with the familiar aroma, a last supper. He had seen too much death to be afraid, but that didn't mean he wasn't disappointed.

"Simon, don't pull that trigger."

The last man to the table, the one who came out of the barn, spoke with authority, put a hand on Tislow's arm and kept it there until the arm obeyed and the gun was pointed at the ground. He was an older man, White, jokingly called Powder White by the Kentucky Law Enforcement community, wanted in a number of states and on a federal warrant for interstate trafficking. Tim didn't think the man would bother buying from Tislow and had crossed him off the list of possible contacts. He dealt with larger quantities of drugs than Simon was rumored to have – unless, of course, there was more heroin in the suitcase than van Hassel was aware of.

"How did you know Simon was here?" he addressed Tim.

"I didn't," Tim replied. "I was chasing down Donny." He nodded to the body at his feet since his hands were wearing his own cuffs, fastened behind his back. "That's off my to-do list now, thanks to you all."

"Well, how'd you know my name then?" Tislow asked.

"You know Deputy van Hassel out of Vegas?"

Tislow frowned. "He's in Kentucky?"

"Was. You get to thank me now. I convinced him you weren't here."

Mr. White smiled and Tim knew right then, looking at that smile, that every decision made for this group was going to be coming through that man. "You really want to be responsible for the death of a Federal Marshal?" he asked him directly, hoping for reason.

The smile didn't falter even for a second. "I assume someone knows you're here."

"Uh-huh."

He dismissed Tim and turned to the other three. "We'll take him with us. I know someone who won't mind disappearing a Marshal for us. We've probably got a couple hours before anyone comes looking. Let's pack the shit up. We're leaving tonight." He looked back at Tim. "He looks fit – get him digging a grave."

Everyone had forgotten about Patty.

"You're just gonna leave him out here?" she squeaked, pointing at her unlucky, parrot-killing, junkie ex-boyfriend.

"He came looking for you, right?" White asked.

Patty nodded and squeezed out a lonesome tear.

Tim thought it was odd that she'd suddenly get feelings for Donny – poor timing, too. White pulled a revolver from his pocket and coldly shot her in the head.

"Make that two graves."

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

* * *

The phone rang a third time.

The phone rang a fourth time and Art called out from his office, "Do you want me to walk over there and answer that for you?"

The look Rachel returned would have cowed a lesser man. Art just blew her a raspberry, stood up and sauntered into the bullpen. It was creeping up to 8pm and the room was deserted except for the two of them. Rachel was scratching her way through a report; Art was waiting on approval for a search warrant for one of his Marshals in the field and he was bored.

The phone had stopped ringing by the time he arrived at her desk. He quirked an eyebrow at her, inviting an explanation for her lassitude.

"It'll go to voicemail."

"And what if it was an emergency?"

Rachel dropped her pen, an impressive amount of attitude in so small and ordinary an action. "It's Joe. He's going out for dinner with people from work. He insists I go. I don't want to go. I'm tired and I don't feel like making small talk. He thinks it looks bad if I don't go. I don't give a _shit_ how it looks."

Art rocked back on his heels. "Okay then."

Rachel picked up her pen and continued to fill in the spaces on the report.

Art yanked a chair over and sat down facing her. "You want to talk?"

"No."

He looked around the office for a different topic. He didn't feel like discussing Raylan anytime soon but the next desk over provided fodder. "Is Tim back yet?"

Rachel frowned, glanced sideways at the empty space where her friend should be. She dropped her pen with a little less attitude and picked up her phone, texted, _Where r u? Art's worried,_ then set it back down and continued her work.

Art stayed put in the chair while they waited for a response from Tim. There was nothing to do sitting at his desk and annoying Rachel was at least amusing him to some degree. After ten minutes of listening for a text _bing_ and being ignored by his best and favorite deputy, he pulled his own phone and dialed Tim's cell. No one answered.

"Shit," Art cursed. "Where is he? It shouldn't have taken him this long. I told him I wanted him back here before six with Donny Hopkins in tow or I'd fire him."

"Tcha, no you didn't." Rachel tried Tim's number, too. Nothing. "I talked to him earlier. He was calling from a landline – probably can't get a signal," she reasoned.

"When was earlier?"

_Earlier_ , she thought, _was four hours ago and he said he'd only be another hour or two._ She dialed his house. No answer. She looked at her boss, said, "You're not really worried about him, are you?"

"Nah," he replied, flipping the end of his tie up and down. He pursed his lips, rubbed his head, added, "Well, maybe a little. He was only going to Estill County, not even an hour drive. Car trouble, do you think?"

He and Rachel stared at each other, trying to divine the future, see into the past, work a little astral projection to Irvine. Art got up finally and walked to his office, came back with a car number scrawled on a post-it, handed it to Rachel who looked it up on the tracker.

"No signal," she reported when the screen refreshed, creases worrying her smooth face.

"Shit," Art repeated. "He picks out the one car with a broken transponder?"

"Or…" Worry creases appeared again.

"Or…" Art dug the heels of hands into his eyes.

"I'll start driving. Call me when you hear from him." Rachel stood up and slipped into her jacket, pulled open a drawer for her keys. "I'll check in when I reach Irvine if I haven't heard from you before then."

Art thanked her but she quipped she was happy for the excuse and he believed her. He watched her go. A whole lot of Marshal-hours on this stupid Hopkins case. His budget was going straight to the shitter.

* * *

She traced Tim's investigation, stopping at each Dempsey address in turn. _Yes, ma'am_ or occasionally _no, ma'am,_ depending on the question asked. She reached the aunt eventually and was directed up the hill.

"Are you his girlfriend?"

"No ma'am, we're coworkers," Rachel replied smiling.

"He went up that hill quite a while ago. Do you think he's in trouble?"

Rachel detected a hint of honest concern in the woman's voice, liked her for it. "He's pretty capable. I'm sure he's fine. Probably just car trouble and no signal for his phone."

"You really think he's capable? He's a man, young lady. Why would he be any different from the rest of them?"

Rachel's smile grew involuntarily. "You do have a point."

"Tell me about it." The aunt shook her head, a seen-it-all gesture. "Are you married?"

"Yes ma'am." The smile slipped to a guarded line, barbed wire.

"It doesn't look like it's agreeing with you."

Rachel mulled over the aunt's summary of her personal life as she followed her directions up the hill, taking two turns and driving fast on the empty road, climbing and winding. It's not as if the woman was a psychic, so Rachel was annoyed, in parts equally split, at the woman for messing in something private, at herself for giving the statement any weight at all. How could the aunt possibly know? Was it that obvious? Rachel dismissed the remark as ridiculous. And it occupied her thoughts completely as she drove through the dark.

The next bend glowed, a car oncoming, and Rachel slowed a bit as a precaution. Full headlights blinded her as the other car rounded the corner careening into her lane. She slammed on the brakes, tried to pull clear of the collision but both vehicles were moving too quickly and she was clipped on the driver's side corner, hard. The world became a blur of shadow and strobe lighting as her car spun in crazy circles off the uphill-side of the road, finally coming to a stop broadside against a large tree. Rachel's hands were clenched tightly on the steering wheel and the brake pedal was firmly pinned to the floor. She eased her grip and swore loudly. One headlight was still working on the passenger side and in its beam she could see down the road to nothing but field and forest.

"Jesus," she breathed and tried to calm her pounding heart and heaving lungs. She sat a moment or two, at some point realizing that she was unhurt, a quick thank you sent upward. Pulling her phone out she dialed 911, all muscle memory, then listened to a ringing in her ear that she thought was the call going through but it was just adrenalin, her blood pumping. There was no cell signal here. She tried the car's ignition, nothing there either.

Thoughts of the other vehicle got her moving. She grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment, opened her door and ran down the road following the skidding tire marks. She could make out a car in the field, an old Cadillac maybe. It had careened off the road and tumbled down the incline a hundred yards from the corner, coming to rest flipped upside-down, one wheel still spinning.

There was a body on the road, thrown through the windshield on impact. She passed him on the way, stopped briefly to check for vitals and finding none, hurried on, hoping fervently she wouldn't find any children in the wreckage. The next body she didn't even bother checking, another man, mangled when he fell out of the door as the car flipped. She got to the wreck and flashed a light inside but couldn't see anything clearly and had to climb in through the driver's door to check for other passengers. There were two men in the back, piled together in a mess of limbs. What she had thought was smoke filling the car was actually a cloud of white dust.

Rachel tried to make sense of the tangle, reaching back and groping. Her hand grasped something soft and plastic and she tossed it out of the way then stopped and stared at it where it lay. She was certain it was a bag of drugs. She lifted it, some spilling from a tear, dipped her finger in and tentatively dabbed some of the powder on her tongue, spat it out again in disgust. She knew that taste – bitter. Bitter heroin. Her sister had introduced Rachel to it by proxy and it had left a bitter taste in her mouth all the years between and even now and probably until the day she died. Bitter, thinking about Shawnee. That was heroin for her, the taste a reflection of her feelings. Bitter.

She backed quickly out of the vehicle, rubbing at her face in case any of the drug had settled on her then tried her phone again, but still no signal. Wrapping her scarf over her nose and mouth she crawled back inside, grabbed the man on top and started pulling. She prayed she wasn't aggravating a spinal injury. Moving them was not the right thing to do, but she didn't want to leave them breathing in a cloud of heroin dust – _if_ they were even breathing. She found a head and a neck and a pulse, kept pulling until she had one man out and on the grass. Then she went in for the last one. He also had a pulse and she started heaving him out. He was easier to move, sliding along the ceiling of the car, but by the time she was finished she was sweating, her knees and hands bleeding from the glass littered in and around the wreck.

"Goddammit. Doesn't anybody bother with seatbelts anymore?" she snapped, as she gave a final tug and fell backward on the grass. "Jesus."

She wiped her bloody hands off on her pants and held the a light up to the men's faces. One looked familiar, she tried to place him; the other she knew.

"Oh God. Tim?"

He looked like a negative of Al Jolson, his face covered in white powder. Rachel pulled her scarf off and wiped desperately at him trying to clean away the heroin. She jumped up and started running for her car, then stopped abruptly, came back and considered the scene. She dragged the other man around until she could cuff him to the car's frame then she searched him and found two handguns.

"Jesus Tim, what the hell did you get yourself into?" she demanded angrily, turned and ran to her car.

Rachel came back quickly with a bottle of water and washed the caked powder off of Tim's face. He'd had the worst of it, landing on the bottom of the heap in the back, his face pressed into the bags. Shawnee had only ever used needles for her heroin, a more economical method. Rachel wasn't sure how much heroin you'd have to snort to overdose, only that it depended on the purity and your tolerance. There was no way of knowing if this heroin was cut or not. There was no way of knowing how much Tim had breathed in.

She cleaned the last of it off and started paying attention to the rest of him, uncuffing him first. That detail told her everything she needed to know about the situation. She cringed when she moved his arms back to his sides, his left was not behaving properly, likely dislocated. It wasn't the first time it'd happened to him. He told her once that he'd hurt it as a kid and now it was susceptible to injury. She had a vivid memory of Art popping it back in place for him after a violent arrest, Tim going ghostly white, then smiling weakly at the relief. She didn't think she could do that for him. She wished Art were here.

She checked him over for bleeding, ran a hand through his unruly hair. A jolt went through her when she looked back to his face, slack, like he'd stopped breathing. She dropped her ear to his chest and listened. There was a beat, but too slow, and breath, barely. The rhythm of his heart and lungs was sluggish and panic crept down her arms. This is how people OD'd. Their bodies shut down in the lethargic haze of a heroin high. Their heart rates dropped off, their breathing became shallow, their brains stopped getting enough oxygen, they slipped into unconsciousness then a coma then they died.

Rachel tried to rein in her fear fueled by her bitter memories, but it overwhelmed her. Frantic, she slapped his face to wake him. She was not going to watch him die of an overdose.

"Tim!" she screamed at him, afraid, yanked him to a sitting position. She poured the remainder of the water bottle over his head and that brought him around. He blinked at her, licked at the water trailing over his lips then closed his eyes again.

"Oh, no you don't, mister," she called him back loudly, slapped his face again. "You stay with me. Tim! TIM!"

He opened his eyes again, trying to focus on her face. "Rachel?" His eyes drooped and she shook him hard. He swatted at her. "What are you doing? I'm trying to get some sleep. Fuck." Then he turned to his right and threw up.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

* * *

"It's okay, that's normal with heroin," Rachel stated, more for her benefit than Tim's. He didn't look terribly upset about heaving up his lunch. He didn't look terribly upset about anything. "You ever done heroin before?"

"What?"

"Heroin, Tim. Have you ever tried heroin before?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?" He rounded out his reply with a Rachelism, "Tcha."

"Not even in Afghanistan? Opium central?"

He shook his head.

"Well, apparently there really is a first time for everything. Does your shoulder hurt?"

"Heroin," he huffed. "I'd never do heroin." He was still on the last conversation. "They even suspect drug use and they'd pull you off the sniper team faster than you could take a piss on patrol." He shook his head again. "No way. Uh-uh. I like my rifle."

Rachel let him prattle on, and when he finished she repeated, "Tim, is your shoulder sore?"

"A little." He tried to shrug, looked lopsided doing it.

"It should be agony. Now listen to me, Tim," she repeated his name every sentence or two to try and keep him focused, "heroin is a pretty powerful pain killer. You might be hurt badly and not know it. You need to be careful, okay?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not fine. You were in an accident. Jesus, Tim, look around. People are dead." She gestured at the man she'd cuffed to the car, still unconscious. "And who is he?" she asked. "Why do I think I know him?"

Tim took in the body next to him, eyes trailing up the arm to the handcuff then drifting around the whole scene, the upside-down car, the scattered glass, the cuts on his hands. Bemused and wide-eyed he looked back at Rachel. "Fuck. What happened?" he exclaimed, then closed his eyes and started to nod off.

"Tim!" Rachel snapped him back. "Stay awake. Who is this man?"

Tim smiled for her then grinned happily. "That is Powder White. Pretty cool, huh?" His grin slid off and eyes slid shut.

Rachel looked more carefully at the man, recognition hitting. "What's he doing here?" she asked, confused. When she didn't get a response she grabbed Tim's chin and shook it. "Tim, we need to get somewhere so I can call for help."

He started digging through his pockets, made a peculiar face when he tried to move his left arm to help in the search and it didn't cooperate. "You can use my phone," he offered then said sadly, "Where is it?" He couldn't remember where he'd left it, had an unclear picture of it being crushed under the heel of a boot. "Never mind."

"Don't worry about your phone. There's no signal here, anyway. I'm going to have to walk down the road a ways. Can you walk?"

"Sure." Tim nodded, then after a pause, "Right now?"

* * *

Rachel recalled days of her sister like this, riding a high, not a care in the world. Shawnee had told her that you get used to it, build up a tolerance. After a while it took a pretty hefty dose for Shawnee to be as lethargic as Tim was currently. Rachel didn't dare leave him, too afraid that he'd slide into unconsciousness. Insufflation, that was the correct term for snorting drugs, and she had nothing but textbook knowledge about how it affected you and how fast and for how long. Between that and a probable concussion, she had to take him with her. She doubted she could do anything if he really started to shut down, but she couldn't leave him here. She couldn't do that.

"Come on, soldier," she ordered, heaving him up onto his feet by his right arm, worrying belatedly that he might have broken a leg in the accident. When he was standing she grabbed hold of his jacket at the front, held him there. "You okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-huh." Rachel shook her head and slowly, cautiously let go. He swayed a little, but remained on his feet. "Come on then," she urged.

She took two steps back toward the road then turned to make sure he was following. He had a hand out on the car, steadying himself, then he leaned against it and starting sliding down to the ground again.

"No! Jesus, Tim!" Rachel let out a primal growl of frustration, scared and helpless, and that seeded emotional clouds. It was crippling her composure, all these bad memories dredged up. She swiped angrily at wet cheeks. "We have to go _now_!"

She wanted so badly to control this. Tim on heroin was wrong. She marched back and yanked him roughly to his feet, gripping his arm tightly and pulling him forward with her. This was all wrong. Her life was set up to avoid this happening again. This was not happening again. She yanked harder, leading him away from the car.

"Okay," he huffed, trying to wipe at his dripping nose with his sleeve while still in her grip.

Rachel dug in her pocket and produced a package of tissues, handed him one. Of course she had tissues, and of course her desk was tidy and her taxes were filed on time and her reports were done early and her kitchen was clean and she should have been at dinner with Joe but then how could she be here helping Tim.

She looked up at him, virtually asleep on his feet. She had to keep him moving. She was afraid for him. If she could just get him to the road it would be easier. She could keep him going then.

Half dragging him, Rachel cleared the incline and stood on the soft shoulder of the road near the first body. She checked her phone. Still no signal. "Any idea who this is?" she asked, pointing at the bloodied corpse. No signal from Tim either. In the fifteen seconds that she'd loosened her death grip on his arm he had sunk cross-legged onto the pavement and was nodding off.

"Oh for fuck's sake," she groaned, a wry twist of her lips at the Tim-expression tumbling involuntarily out of her mouth. Taking a deep breath she hauled her friend to his feet again and reminded herself that this was why she had said 'no' when Joe suggested a dog. She had no energy for dragging one for a walk every day after work. Maybe she'd bring Tim around for a week or so and let Joe look after him – cure him of his desire for a Labrador puppy.

"Tim, who is that?"

"That," Tim responded, studying the body carefully, "is Simon Tislow."

"You're joking."

"Nope."

"I thought you were looking for Hopkins."

"I found him, too." He looked so earnest.

"You've been a busy boy. C'mon," she coaxed and started down the road holding her phone out.

* * *

Art delivered the warrant then headed up to the office, hoping to find Rachel and Tim, and with them a really good excuse why they hadn't phoned him to tell him everything was fine. But the bullpen was disconcertingly quiet. He called Rachel. He called Tim. He called the Estill County Sheriff's office, relayed the directions Rachel had given him earlier, asked him to send someone up to find them. Maybe the Bermuda Triangle had shifted north and west. He now had two missing deputies.

Art got back in his car and drove to Irvine to see for himself what was going on.

* * *

A half hour later, Rachel finally had a signal, weak but workable, and she phoned 911 and requested an ambulance and asked them to patch her over to the local Sheriff.

"I was just talking to your boss," the Sheriff said happily. "He's in his car heading our way. And I should be there shortly, so hang tight."

He was so chipper that she hated to stomp all over his good mood with a detailed explanation of what he was facing tonight. This wasn't just a simple motor-vehicle collision and he'd be out here for a while. She'd let him have his fifteen minutes of cheerfulness and deflate him when he arrived.

She ended the call, dropped her head back and admired the stars out in abundance. It really was a beautiful night. Considering everything that had happened, it should be raining too. She allowed herself a well-earned sigh and came back to earth. Tim had settled himself comfortably on the road, flat out on his back, oblivious. She stepped over and kicked him gently; he grunted.

The walking had helped ease the panic Rachel had felt earlier watching Tim drift in and out of awareness. She drew her arms around herself tightly and tried to think professionally about what to do next. There were two dead men, another injured and a car full of drugs up the road and no one keeping an eye on it all.

"We should head back, Tim," she stated, but the order lacked enthusiasm.

His opened his eyes briefly and looked at her. She gave in without a fight, exhausted, dropped down beside him on the road, shifting up close to him into a more comfortable position. She set the flashlight on the pavement, pointed the beam as a beacon so the Sheriff wouldn't run them over by accident when he came charging up over the hill to the rescue.

"I'm supposed to be having dinner at a nice restaurant tonight with Joe," she said. "What does it say about me that I'd rather be sitting on a road out in the middle of nowhere with a drugged-up Tim Gutterson, waiting on the rest of what is going to be a very long night of police procedural, repeating the same statement over and over again?"

She gave Tim a shake, just to be certain he was still with her.

He opened his eyes halfway and replied, "I'm listening…Joe…dinner. If it makes you feel any better, I'm supposed to be at the airport picking up my girlfriend." He rolled his head so he could see her, said sadly, "I told her I'd be there. I promised. I think it was important. She's going to think..."

He stopped and wiped his nose with his sleeve. Rachel watched but didn't bother fishing out another tissue. It seemed a trite thing now. She couldn't imagine an Army Ranger carrying a supply of clean tissues with him on a mission.

She reached for him again, only this time she patted his good shoulder. "You explain to her what happened and if she doesn't understand, you call me and I'll come over."

"Come over and what?"

"And tell her what's what." Rachel turned it on full at the end, hamming up the part, head wag, a smart snap of the fingers.

Tim chuckled, his nose running like a pre-schooler, a loud sniff and another sleeve drag across his face. "I'd like to see that. She'd probably start laughing."

"You really like her, don't you?"

"Aw, come on now. Let me keep pretending that I prefer to be alone."

Rachel smiled. "Oh, she's got you. You sad, sad boy."

"Yeah, I know. She's perfect, but I never imagined. Wickeder sense of humor than me, and sometimes when I can't joke about…" His right hand waved helplessly, "…she gets that too."

"Joe doesn't get that."

"Get what?"

"That our job is blood, sweat and spit, funny and tragic. You have to live it."

"Good description."

Rachel was glad someone in her life got it.

"What's this mean for me?" Tim asked vaguely.

"What?"

"The heroin."

"You'll be fine. From what I know, snorting once isn't going to turn you into an addict." Rachel sat up on her knees and pointed a finger in his face. "But if you _ever_ try it on purpose, I will sick my mama on you."

Tim opened his eyes wide. "Whoa."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Great, actually. I got Donny Hopkins. Art'll be happy."

"Yeah, Art'll be happy." Rachel settled back to wait. "Where _is_ Donny?"

"Dead."

"Oh." Rachel grimaced.

"That's okay. He's with his girlfriend."

"Oh." _And there's the tragic_ , she thought.

They sat in silence for a while, Rachel poking Tim sporadically to make sure he could still wake up. He would mumble something and she'd try to make it out. She recalled hearing some very personal things from her sister when she would nod, times when she was doing it hard, drifting through different scenes of her life, talking to people who were in her mind not the room. Rachel decided that taking advantage of Tim's heroin euphoria wasn't fair. But then who said anything about fair? She leaned closer, asked a question that had sat on the surface of her curiosity since the day she'd first met him, the kid in the grown-up suit and tie.

"Tim, how old were you when you made your first kill in Afghanistan?"

Tim opened his eyes and rolled his head to face her, looking straight into her, in behind her eyes and shuffling through her thoughts. She regretted asking. Then his face was lit up, highlighting the wear and tear of the day as the Sheriff's car rounded the bend, headlights slicing harshly across the quiet dark.

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

"You said look for the flashing lights." Art climbed out of his car to greet Rachel, admired the display – two ambulances, two cruisers, two fire trucks, two tow trucks. "You weren't kidding. It's like a Noah's Ark of emergency service vehicles. Where's Tim? He okay?"

Rachel waved an arm at one of the ambulances. "He's being checked out, but…" She shrugged.

Art squinted where she was pointing. "But what?"

"It's hard for them to tell if there's much wrong – other than the shoulder. He must have breathed in a good dose of that heroin." She shook her head and looked over at Tim sitting on the floor of the ambulance, chin on his chest, eyes closed.

Art stared at her. "Repeat that. Heroin?"

"Oh, did I forget to mention that to you when you called?" she responded coyly. "Yes, Chief, heroin. He sniffed up enough to be feeling no pain and his blood pressure's ridiculously low…and his pupils are typical pinpoints. They can't even make a cursory concussion diagnosis."

"Heroin?" Art ran a hand across his mouth. "Shit, how am I going to write that up in a report and not have it sound bad?"

"Just put in 'an accidental insufflation of diacetylmorphine.' I promise you, their eyes will gloss over and they'll skim right past it."

"You didn't just come up with that, did you?" Art asked suspiciously. "You been thinking about it."

Rachel didn't give up anything.

"You'll have to spell it for me," said Art peevishly.

"Not a problem." She smiled reassurance and added, "Trust me, when they finish reading through the list of bad guys taken down in the incident, they won't even remember the doped-up Deputy part."

Art shut the door to his car while he mulled over Rachel's statement. "List?"

She stood calmly, waiting for a real question.

Art let his eyes wander the scene again. "Okay, better start at the beginning."

"I can't. I have to start near the end. That's where I came in." Rachel led him over to the side of the road and pointed to the overturned Cadillac. "I was involved in a collision with that car. The driver and one of the passengers were killed in the accident. Tim and another man, Patrick White, were injured when…"

Art interrupted, his face declaring his disbelief, "Patrick White? You mean Powder White?"

"Mm-hmm."

"What the hell is he doing up here? Last I heard he was sighted down in southern Mississippi."

Rachel shrugged. "Like I said, I came in at the end. We need to get Tim's story."

Art stepped off the road with a grunt and on down the incline, Rachel following. His knees were arguing at the unnecessary abuse, but Art couldn't help wanting to get a closer look at the wreck in the field. "Tim and White survived this?"

"White's on his way to the hospital. It looks like he got it worse than Tim."

"And how come Tim got out of this so lightly?"

Rachel shrugged again. "He's Tigger. He bounces."

"No shit."

They reached the car and Art poked around. "So who are the dead guys? Please tell me one of them's Hopkins."

"No, but apparently Tim did find him. He's dead too, but not here."

Art threw her a worried look, "Tim didn't shoot him, did he?"

"No. Tim says one of the other guys did – one of the men killed in the accident. You know him, too, White's right hand man…"

"Cole Ferguson?"

"That's him."

"Shit, this _is_ a list. And the other dead guy?"

Rachel waited until Art had finished peering inside the vehicle and had straightened up again. He turned to her expectantly.

"Simon Tislow," she replied when she had a good view of his face. She was glad she'd waited until she could see his reaction. It was priceless. She felt a small pang of guilt that Tim had missed out on it.

Art wasn't often left speechless. He stood gaping. When he'd regained his composure he let out a single 'huh' then slapped the bottom of the car and said with enthusiasm, "Well shit, why hasn't anyone popped the trunk on this beast? Jimmy Hoffa could be in there."

Jimmy Hoffa wasn't in the trunk, but Art got over his disappointment quickly when a small cache of weapons and 75 pounds of heroin cascaded onto the grass.

Art started to giggle – they'd hit the jackpot. "Oh my, I can't wait to call the Bureau Chief in Las Vegas. They told me Tislow had only about 15 pounds of the stuff."

* * *

"You got a dog whistle for drug dealers or something?" Art demanded as he approached the ambulance where Tim was sitting having his blood pressure taken for the third time. "I think you may have broken a record for warrants closed out in a day."

Tim opened his eyes, smiled a lazy smile, "Hey, Chief. I was just talking to Raylan and uh…" Tim stopped, confused, then frowned. "Raylan's not here, is he?"

The paramedic gave Art and Rachel a look of strained tolerance. "He's been nodding in and out the last half hour. It must've been a pretty good dose," she said.

"Also his first," Rachel supplied.

The woman nodded, "Ah…yeah. That'll do it." She looked back at Tim. "He should go to the hospital and at least get his head checked, but he's insisting he needs to get to the airport."

Art moved up beside her, hands on his hips, concerned. "It'd be nice if we could keep him a bit longer to sort a few things out. We've got quite a mess here and he's the only one left who knows what happened. Is there anything _seriously_ wrong with him? "

The paramedic threw her hands in the air. "I can't tell, and I will _not_ be responsible for giving him the all clear."

Art understood the medical profession's fear of lawyers – he suffered from the same anxiety in his job. He took a long and considered look at his deputy. "You want me to fix that shoulder for you, Tim?"

Tim nodded complacently. "Okay."

The paramedic put out a hand to stop Art. "That should be done at the hospital."

"It's okay," Art explained. "I've done it for him twice before. I've got two stupid younger brothers who were doing _Jackass_ before Johnny Knoxville made it mainstream. I was doing first aid before I hit puberty."

The woman huffed and backed away, saying, "I am not involved in this."

"Don't worry, you have witnesses," Art reassured her. "Turn your back and don't watch if it makes you feel better. Rachel, hold onto him so he doesn't tip over and smack his head." Art set himself into position, said to the paramedic, "He wouldn't dare sue me – I'd fire his ass."

Art was a big man and made shoulder setting look easy. Tim grunted when it was over, went paler and leaned against the wall of the ambulance.

"Thanks, dude," he moaned. "Shit, that hurt."

Art smiled. "He called me 'dude.'"

The paramedic stepped past her patient into the ambulance and tossed a sling at Art. "Make sure he gets to a hospital tonight."

* * *

For a while every time Tim opened his eyes he was in the wrong place, the wrong place but the same place, propped against a tree in the yard behind the old Dempsey house, staying where he'd been unceremoniously deposited by Art after showing him the location of the makeshift graves, the fresh dirt piles protecting the bodies of Donny Hopkins and his girlfriend, Patty.

Tim's eyes wanted to be shut and he had no desire to fight them, and without the visual stimulation of the here and now his mind would drift easily in and out of familiar places and he would pick up conversations with people he knew past and present, living and dead. The sound of a shovel hitting rock or a voice calling would snatch him harshly from the lazy afternoons behind his eyelids and he'd focus on the dark slowly and curiously, take in the present all over again, surprised every time. Then he would start itching. One moment he would be talking to someone at work or on his porch or on a base somewhere, and next he'd be outdoors sitting on the ground staring at white-hot spotlights and the local deputies shoveling while Art and the Sheriff stood to the side discussing in hushed voices the tragedy or the comedy or however they saw the outcome of the night's events. And Rachel was always there, walking the yard with a flashlight or standing close by, the only character who changed position each time his eyes opened. He'd catch her looking over at him, solicitous.

Rachel was crouched down in front of him when he snapped into the present this time; she was saying as he brought her into focus, "It's too late to go to the airport Tim. It's closed by now."

"Okay," he mumbled, wiped his nose again. He wished it would stop running.

The next time she was there she said, "Who's Pete?" and then she smiled sadly, patted his head and left him. Maybe the grief at not seeing his old friend when he opened his eyes showed on his face, enough for her to interpret and leave alone.

Then he was talking to Rachel, and she was there when he opened his eyes and that was okay except they weren't in the office anymore.

"We found the bodies," she stated, dangled in his face a bag with a shattered phone. "Is this yours?"

He nodded, ran his sleeve under his nose again.

"Art has your service weapon and your Beretta. They were in the trunk of the car. I forgot to tell you before."

"Okay."

She was clearly amused when he didn't react beyond that, didn't immediately demand that Art return them. She chuckled as she stood up. "I'm going to drive you back to Lexington as soon as the coroner's done. You in the mood for some X-rays?"

"No."

She laughed again, "Should've thought of that before you head-butted the driver."

"They were gonna disappear me."

"Not on my watch."

It occurred to him then that she had been involved in the accident, too. "Are _you_ okay?"

"I think I'm going to have a stiff neck tomorrow…and a lot of paperwork."

* * *

Tim hated hospitals – too many ways in and out. It was hard to feel secure. He sat in a chair, his back against the wall, in a curtained off area, a poor attempt at privacy. After the X-rays and the exam he'd dressed again, annoying the nurse, his clothes covered in dirt and blood and dusted with heroin. The heroin high was starting to wear off, the lethargy and complacency with it. Every hurt that had been blissfully cloaked for the last five hours was coming out of hiding, every worry was surfacing, irritable was starting to show through. Tim was restless and sore and tired.

"Can't I go?"

Rachel eyed him, teetering between sympathetic and exasperated. He'd asked her twice already, now three times.

"Tim, stop asking."

He looked sideways up at her. Since he'd refused to make himself comfortable in the bed they'd provided for him, she'd decided not to let it go to waste and had stretched out on it herself. Rachel was beyond exhausted and irritable would have been the word she'd have used to describe herself, too, if anyone had asked her. No one did.

"You want something?" he asked, feeling guilty, knowing she was only sticking around to keep him company. "I can make a run to the cafeteria."

"Do you know what time it is? There's no way it's open. Besides, you're supposed to be resting." She pointed to his head.

He ignored the hint. "Vending machine? There's one in the hall."

"No thanks." She yawned.

"You don't have to stay, you know. I don't mind. Go on home. You look bagged."

"Well, thank you for the compliment. You can go to hell. You should see what you look like." They both grinned; Rachel's slipped off first. "Honestly, I don't want to go home." She crossed her arms, drew her knees up and crossed one leg over, foot bouncing in agitation, all over cross. "God, I can't figure out how I got myself into this hole."

"My first squad sergeant, you know what he'd say?"

She narrowed her eyes, wondering if she was in the mood for grunt wisdom, huffed to discourage him from continuing. But Tim plowed on anyway.

"He'd say, _if you find yourself in a hole, stop digging_." He snorted, amused by a memory. "Problem is, sometimes you don't recognize that you're in a hole until it's too deep to climb out of."

Rachel grinned again, appreciating the grunt wisdom after all.

"I got a ladder you can borrow," Tim offered.

"And I got a phone you can borrow," she replied. "Want to call your girl?"

Now Tim's grin slipped. "I don't know her number. Isn't that stupid? It's saved on my phone." He sighed pathetically, locked out of the candy jar, looked slyly out of the corner of his eye at Rachel. "Can I go?"

She reached to swat him, stopped when she remembered the concussion.

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Rachel dropped Tim off at home sometime before the sun had a chance to show itself and cheer either of them up. He waved a sullen and silent thank you, walked straight through to his kitchen and poured himself a drink. Standing sipping it under a hot shower, he let the past 24 hours run down the drain, flopped exhausted onto his bed and slept where he landed for an hour or two. His shoulder woke him and he sat up abruptly looking for the time, groaned. So this is what it felt like to be one of those balls spinning in a lottery cage. Not a career goal, he decided.

The routine of fixing a pot of coffee was manageable. Then afterward he slouched at the kitchen table in a haze of insecurities and indecision, aches and pains, listening to the water drip, savoring the aroma of brewing coffee, staring at the small bottle of codeine tablets resting in the palm of his hand. It was prescribed to help him sleep through the pain from his shoulder, only to be used as necessary. Tim read the label three times, his thoughts hung up on one word – opiate.

He set the bottle in the cupboard when he took out a mug for his coffee then pulled it out again and stepped over to the sink and tossed the bottle underneath into the garbage. One, two sips of coffee and still not satisfied, so he fished the bottle out of the garbage, strode into the bathroom and dumped the pills in the toilet, flushed it angrily.

* * *

The office was buzzing when Tim appeared and pushed open the door late in the morning. He was supposed to take the day and relax at home but he was restless, too sore to stay in any one position for too long. He had tried to reach Miljana, messages left, no call back yet, then he went by her apartment, no answer there either. He didn't feel up to confronting her at the VA center where she worked part time, so instead, for want of somewhere to go other than home alone, he pulled into the courthouse lot and went upstairs to work.

The teasing was rampant.

"Hey, it's the hero – I mean _heroin_."

"Drug testing this afternoon, Gutterson," accompanied by a good-natured punch to the shoulder, the left one, the sore one.

Garcia blocked his way to add her motherly humor, pretended to lick a tissue and wiped at his chin. "You missed some, sweetie."

He swatted her hand away and glared. She just laughed.

Rachel snorted at the antics and Tim threw her an accusing look. The lines of fatigue on her face melted under the warmth of a mischievous grin which didn't falter when Tim's expression promised revenge. He took a step toward her desk but Art's voice delayed the confrontation.

"Tim!" He waved him into his office without looking up.

Throwing a scowl at Rachel and then his jacket in a heap on his chair, Tim bowed backward out of the bullpen, calling out peevishly, "I hate you people," before closing the glass door on the laughter, turning his back on them and flipping them all the finger. He flopped into a chair in front of Art's desk.

"What are you doing here?" Art still hadn't looked up. "You know, I've had my head buried in paperwork since 8am dealing with all the shit that went down last night. Maybe I lost track of time. Is it _tomorrow_ already?"

Tim answered the sarcasm first. "No, pretty sure it's still today, unless I slept long. I figured I'd help Rachel with the reports."

"You have a concussion, Tim. And I'm pretty sure your shoulder's hurting – go home and get some rest."

Art still didn't look up, pen moving over another page of bureaucratic lubricant, but when he didn't hear any noises that might indicate a deputy obeying his orders he sighed and peered over his glasses.

"How many times do you have to get knocked on the head before some sense shakes loose and starts to circulate? Go home."

A lip twitched down; Tim fidgeted.

"What?" Art demanded.

"I was supposed to meet my girlfriend at the airport last night." Tim looked off to the right out the window, embarrassed.

Art took off his glasses and tossed them on his desk. Every once in a while, out of the blue, Tim would come out with something personal and catch him off guard – a sneak attack. Art had to wrestle down a strong urge to play Dad. "You want me to write you a note?"

Tim glared, allowed a single syllable through clenched teeth. "No."

"Well, Tim, I'd say you got a hell of a good excuse for not showing up. Go talk to her."

"She's at the VA today," he mumbled.

Art considered Tim's reply – something personal again, though obliquely stated. He thought he understood his deputy's reluctance to go into that building for any reason. It'd be like visiting a grave yard, holding a mirror up that reflected back every _what if_ that lingered long after the war ended. Tim would definitely be at a disadvantage emotionally. He then put two and two together and figured out who the girlfriend likely was. He wasn't surprised, maybe even a bit pleased. "When's she done?"

"Five."

"Go help Rachel with the reports. Do _not_ leave your chair. Long lunch, out the door at 4:30."

Tim could work with that. He stood to go, hesitated.

"What now? You want me to go talk to her for you?"

A sneer, "No," then Tim wiped a hand nervously across his lips, "Uh, when _is_ the next drug test?"

"Oh, shit, Tim, you're fine." Art waved away that worry. "Go on."

One hand on the door, he stopped again. "Boss?"

"Uh-huh."

"I need a new phone."

"Okay, go get one. I'll approve it."

"Did the memory card survive from my last one?"

"Ask Rachel."

"Okay."

"And Tim," Art stopped him leaving this time, "that was quite a haul last night."

"TAUFU."

"Tofu?"

"Totally and utterly…"

Art put the pieces together, laughed out loud, drawing out a smile from Tim. "Do you boys in fatigues have nothing better to do than sit around making up crude acronyms?"

"Hurry up and wait, and mostly the _wait_ part. I could give you one a day till you retire."

"TAUFU. That is an inexcusable understatement for what happened yesterday. What a haul," Art repeated, still elated even under the crushing paperwork. "I think this one's going down in the US Marshal history books as one of the weirdest yet most productive sequence of events _ever_." Art rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. "I have to call van Hassel around four, have a conference with him and the Vegas Bureau Chief. You could sit in on it if you want – just to listen, mind you. It could be fun. Apparently van Hassel wants to talk to you but I told him you were off for the week with injuries."

The two Marshals shared evil thoughts and matching grins.

"Let me know when," said Tim.

"But you've got to promise to keep your mouth shut, no matter how badly the sarcasm wants out. Don't make a liar of me."

"Okay."

"Okay."

* * *

"Did you really think I was going to keep last night to myself?" said Rachel when Tim reappeared.

"Well, I was hoping you might play down certain parts."

"I omitted the runny nose."

Tim crossed his arms, huffed, "Wow, so kind."

"Why are you even here today?" Rachel indicated Raylan's chair and Tim gladly accepted, scooted up beside her desk, leaned on it and dumped his head in his hands.

"She won't return my calls," he said sadly. "What do I do?"

"You go see her. She obviously wants to talk face to face, not over the phone."

"How do you know?"

"Tcha." She looked at him smugly.

And Tim was no wiser. He changed the topic. "You still got my phone?"

Rachel reached into a box behind her and pulled out a bag containing the pieces. Tim fished around in it, retrieved the SIM and memory cards and headed off to find himself a tech guy.

Later that afternoon, Tim growled and rubbed at his eyes. His head was pounding now and his shoulder was screaming at him. He dug around in his knapsack for a sling and a bottle of ibuprofen, downed a handful then tried Miljana's number again. When it went to voice mail he set the phone back in its cradle and started looking around the office for something to do that would keep him from wading uselessly in a swamp of self-pity. He got up and stole a newspaper from Garcia's desk and played at arts and crafts for a while, cutting out pictures and unimportant newspaper articles and taping them up along the divider between his desk and Raylan's. He then wandered around the room and collected as many different colored post-it pads as he could find, sat back down and scribbled happy faces on them and added them to his collage.

"Gutterson, heads up."

Tim looked up in time to catch a memory stick lobbed in the air toward him, a techie giving him the thumbs up behind the throw. "Your SIM card's toast, but your memory card survived. I transferred your stuff onto that."

"Thanks, man."

"No problem."

He opened the file and clicked through the photos, remembering. The grave stone with _S. Tislow_ carved on it came up on his screen and Tim grinned. It was a good picture. He attached it to an email and sent it to Art then printed a copy for himself and gave it pride of place on the divider. By now, he'd completely covered the plexiglass, a solid wall of primary school art between him and Raylan. It made him happy.

Raylan stormed through half an hour later, a quick meeting with Art and AUSA Vasquez. He didn't look happy and Tim wondered if he was having any luck burying his big-toothed, albino-looking, son-of-a-bitch, Detroit thug, Robert Quarles. Raylan stopped at his desk, scrunched a face at the wall paper.

"Gosh, Tim, if you need privacy to pick your nose, just say so. I'll turn my back."

"This is art therapy, Raylan. I haven't heard a word from my friend at the FBI since I called to apologize for you last week. This is my way of getting over being pissed, keep from shooting you or rigging your chair with explosives."

"Should I tell Art how bored you are?"

"Yeah, you go right ahead. I cleared enough warrants yesterday, I got permission to fuck off for the rest of the month."

Raylan turned a puzzled look at Rachel. She shrugged – a confirmation of sorts.

"What happened to your arm?" Raylan was beginning to get the feeling there was a story here.

"Ask her," Tim said pointing at Rachel. "Apparently she's told everybody else."

Art barked out a laugh from his office and everyone in the bullpen turned to see what was so funny. "Oh my God, Tim, where did you find this? That's hilarious," he called out. "I'm going to frame a copy and send it to Las Vegas."

* * *

"Tim," Rachel was at his desk, frowning. "I'm just going over your report. I didn't play that big a part. You can't put us down as 'co' on this."

"How's your neck today?"

She refused to walk into that trap, stared at him stonily.

"What?" he said, "And my part was any bigger?" Tim waved at the reports spread out, still not sure exactly how he'd managed to get his name on the arrests of four fugitives when he was only looking for one. "I tripped and fell into them."

"No. You were working a case."

"I'm not arguing with you and I'm not signing it if you change it."

"Well at least change Tislow and Hopkins."

Tim leaned back to see her better, grimaced. "Three of the four of them are dead. If your name's on there too, then I don't have to take all the blame."

"Nice try. None of their deaths are on you and you know it. They were killed while in the process of committing a crime."

"Yeah, bad driving."

Rachel snorted. "Not _bad driving_ , try kidnapping and threatening a federal officer…and possession."

"Threatening a federal officer," Tim sneered. "That is _so done._ Don't you get tired of hearing it?"

"I get tired of dealing with it."

Tim looked back at his work. "Leave it how it is."

"Tim…"

" _Leave it_."

Rachel frowned. "Okay."

"Okay."

* * *

Art poured while Tim made himself comfortable on the couch. He handed Tim a glass, sat behind his desk, leaned back and propped his feet up. They raised their drinks in a toast. Then Art hit the conference call button.

"Deputy van Hassel," he greeted cheerfully, "Art Mullen here…"

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

He tried buzzing her apartment a second time, not really hopeful, let his finger trail down the glass of the name plate. When it had finished its path, he lifted it back to her button again, hesitated then stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to the street. He stood staring at the license plate on a car across the road, let his mind play with the letters, making up words that fit the order – TPD, torpid, tripped, trapped, stumped, stamped, _stupid_. He felt stupid doing it when he should be thinking of something more important, like what to say when he finally saw her. He'd likely be able to repeat the license plate number tomorrow if someone were to ask him. Not that there was someone who would.

A car pulled up to the curb and blocked the plate, cutting off his thoughts. Miljana stepped out of it and smiled a farewell to the driver, a man. She closed the door to the car while the driver was still talking, pretending not to hear him. Tim knew she was pretending because he could hear the man just fine from where he was standing, asking if he should park and come up. He left some tire on the street handling his rejection maturely. The whole scene might have annoyed him if she hadn't so blatantly brushed the guy off. The way it played, Tim found himself smirking in appreciation of a non-too-subtle burn.

She was digging in her bag and didn't see Tim standing in the shadows at the door.

"Hey," he said softly when she was close.

She stopped immediately, looked at him like she was at the wrong house, caught and embarrassed by her mistake.

"I didn't expect to see you again." It came out hurried, hurting. She looked away then back in her bag for her keys.

Tim opened his mouth but nothing came out. Clear thought was stuffed in a blender with his emotions and turned to pulp.

"I'm sure you have a good story," she continued, false chipper, clipping her words. She raised a hand to stop him from making excuses. "Not tonight, please."

As she brushed past him to put her key in the lock, he reached over and lightly ran the back of his hand down her arm. The need to get close was overwhelming.

The gentle touch shattered her composure and she jerked away to face him. "Where were you last night?" she demanded. "I needed to talk to someone. I needed to talk to _you_."

There was a weed growing in a crack in the cement and he toed it with his boot, couldn't uproot it from its precarious hold. He could account for every hour of last night but all he could think to say was, "Well, I'm here now. I'm listening," and he said it to the weed.

When he looked back up she was studying him.

"Shit, you probably do have a good story, don't you?" she whispered, wanting it to be true, not wanting it to be true.

"I fixed your car."

She huffed, shook her head, disbelieving. " _That's_ what kept you too busy to come to the airport?"

"No," he exclaimed, anxious to get it right. "No, I fixed it last week. It needed a new starter. That's why you were having trouble with it. And I cleaned it. Do you _ever_ clean it?"

Miljana brought both hands up, holding her head like it might split in half trying to understand him. "Tim, I don't give a _fuck_ about my car." He was wearing her down already. She thought she could hold out longer than this but emotions were like water, impossible to compress. _"Where were you last night?"_ She yelled it this time.

"I was trying heroin for the first time," he blurted out, taking cover behind sarcasm.

She looked alarmed, extrapolating reasons and assuming the worst. "Why?" It was a plea. "I thought…I thought you were handling things so well."

"No…I meant…it was an accident."

The disbelief was a slap. "An accident? How do you try heroin by _accident_?"

"Jesus, it's not like I'd do it on purpose. It was everywhere. It was like a snow globe," he tried to explain, moving his arms to enhance the picture. "The car rolled and a couple of the bags split. I couldn't exactly stop breathing. And anyway I was unconscious through most of it – concussion." He pointed to his head, made a wry face.

She tried to make sense of it. "You were in a car accident?"

He nodded. "Last night, when I was supposed to be at the airport."

"You and some bags of heroin?"

He nodded again, encouraging her.

"So, which one of you was driving?" The sound that escaped her lips after she asked could've been a sob, maybe a hard single laugh at the absurdity, maybe a cry of despair at the unlikely excuse. "I was right," she said after a moment, words biting. "Obviously a good story." She threw her arms up in defeat. "Go on, then. Why were you in a car with bags of heroin?"

"I was chasing a guy who killed...a parrot," he explained seriously. He realized as he said it how ridiculous it sounded and then he was laughing and he couldn't stop himself he was so happy to be talking to her. "I missed you."

She might not have heard the last statement if there had been more noise from the street or if she'd started laughing with him. But she heard it. It was a through and through – a clean and lucky shot. Through the hole left she could see more clearly past her hurt and she noticed a bruise along his right cheek and a discoloring under one eye. She stopped herself from reaching out to touch his face.

"I went on a date tonight," she said not meaning to be hurtful.

"I figured." He wasn't laughing anymore.

"Of course I spent the whole time thinking about you." And then she caved, grabbed a fistful of his jacket in each hand and shook him, punctuating each push-pull with a word. "I-thought-you-were-giving-up."

Tim shook his head. "No. I'm really sorry I didn't make it to the airport. I couldn't."

"Parrot murder and a heroin snow globe? Really?"

He smiled tentatively. "It's been a crazy week. Every stupid-ass thing that happened, I kept seeing you laughing about it."

She snorted. "My humor...it gets me in trouble, often."

He sensed she might be softening a little, stuck a foot in the open door. "Well, I like your humor. I pride myself on mine, especially when it's inappropriately timed. But, I dunno. I think there's something sexy about a woman beating me at something I'm so skilled at."

"That makes you a rare one." She gave him a smile.

Tim felt exposed standing on the walkway outside, talking, but he wasn't sure what to do next, didn't dare suggest her place or his – his good intentions were at war with other needs. He gestured down the street to the bar on the corner. "Can I buy you a drink?" He worried she might see through his offer, realize he was looking for some 80-proof morale boosting for himself.

"You're asking me on a date? Tim, I don't think you've ever actually asked me on a date."

"Whatever it takes." He rolled his eyes, cocked his head, grinned.

"Well, I don't want to go on another _date_ tonight. I've already had one. I want to go home and take off my shoes and slouch."

The grin got serious in a hurry and he nodded, dropped his eyes down at the concrete, worked at the weed again.

"So," she prompted.

He looked up, puzzled, and she wondered that one minute he could look sixteen-years-old, the next sixty, and sometimes, but rarely, he could actually look his age. _Sixteen_ , she thought, when their eyes met. Now – lost boy, edgy and sarcastic US Marshal, or jaded and efficient soldier? And there was the problem. In order to get a measure of his age she had to lose her focus on his character; refocus on the character and lose the measure of his age. He wasn't a case from her psych texts but a complex blend of experience and emotion and she realized then the disservice she was doing him and herself when she anticipated his behavior. Here was a Schrodinger's cat, all for her. To measure him was to change his essence. It was an epiphany, and it freed her to love him just because, or to try to anyway.

"So," she repeated and gave him the answer he was searching desperately for, "invite me back to your place. It's a lot more comfortable than a bar and I need a good laugh."

"Okay." He wet his lips nervously. "Do you want to come back to my place?"

"Okay." She hadn't let go of his jacket, smiled wryly at the symbolism. She took a small step closer and growled, "Your excuse for not being there to pick me up had better be funny and spectacular enough to make me forget crying like a baby on the bus, alone, all the way from Louisville to Lexington." She continued a pretense of anger, punctuating her feelings by giving him a good shake on the important words – crying, alone, bus. She'd already decided to forgive him, but he didn't need to know that yet.

And Tim stood there and took it, content. She was hardly threatening. He wouldn't have cared if she had started hitting him as long as she stayed close.

She was still clutching him when her rant ended, near enough that he could move his head just a little and kiss her, so he did.

"I missed you," she breathed and leaned into him. "I had nobody to laugh with. I really needed someone to laugh with."

He wrapped her tightly.

"Thanks for fixing my car," she said.

"And cleaning it."

" _And_ cleaning it."

"You know how long it took me to fucking clean your car?" he complained.

Later, she rolled on the couch beside him, giggling at his description of Rachel yanking him by the hand through the field then down the road, yelling and coaxing, and he trying to get his arm free so he could wipe his runny nose. He stopped his narrative, his lazy-consonant, dead-pan delivery of the night's events, and grinned at her. When she smiled up for him, Jimi Hendrix' _Little Wing_ started playing in his head and that brought to mind vivid memories of his recent heroin experience. He knew somehow that she would've fit in perfectly on his ride that night, and he wished he could combine the three in a free-floating hour – Hendrix, heroin and her. There weren't many carefree images to conjure in his past, not much available to an ex-Ranger now Deputy US Marshal, and he grabbed it greedily out of his imagination for his very own, savored the taste, held it tightly and in secret, knowing it could never happen. But it made him smile.

He pulled her off the couch and took her up to bed.

* * *

"I'm going to email them today and decline the offer," she said, frowning into her coffee.

Tim hadn't realized how much he enjoyed this half hour with her, before she went her way for the day and he his. She had described snapshots of her trip to him the night before but saved the news of a job offer in Serbia for a cooler morning conversation. He didn't dare say anything or try to influence her. He just let her talk, explaining to him the need for psychologists in a country where Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was commonplace in the aftermath of back-to-back wars. Tim thought of the need in Afghanistan as well and was grateful that she wasn't fluent in Pashto. He couldn't stand to think of her there.

He was aware that she was having trouble finding full-time work in Lexington in the field she was interested in and was surprised when she said she wasn't going to accept the offer. It was her dream job. Now he was frowning, too.

"You're not just saying that 'cause…" he started, hesitated, then said, "Milja, I'm fine. I know you want to do this."

She smiled, reached across the table and took his hand. "I wouldn't do that to you, Tim, stay just for you. That'd be making myself so important and I'd resent you for it and you'd resent me." She twisted up her face, holding back emotions. "Beware of what you wish for, right?" she joked. "I went to the clinic and worked with these kids every day for a week while Mom visited with family, and every day I came home and cried." She couldn't scrunch her features any harder and the tears worked their way through. "I can't do it. I feel like such a coward. I can't do it."

"Hey now, sweetheart, you can't..."

She interrupted, " _You did_. You lived all that shit and got through it."

"Do you really think if I'd known, I would've gone?" Jaded soldier, efficient words. "Milja, I was betting blind."

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

For the fourth day in a row Tim slipped in late. He and Miljana had some catching up to do. If it had been Raylan no one would have noticed – a late cowboy was a common occurrence. But a late soldier wasn't. Tim was part of everyone's morning routine and his tardiness had the office alternating between mumbling about possible signs of a coming apocalypse and grumbling about Nelson's coffee making skills.

Tim tried to avoid eye contact with Art when he walked past him to his desk. Art had strategically chosen a spot to stand, just far enough from the corner of Tim's desk that if Tim tried to walk behind his boss to get to his chair it would look like he was being evasive, but walking in front put them so close together that a confrontation was inevitable. And Art had prepared for the inevitable. He was resplendent in shades of annoyed – baleful glare, arms crossed tightly, lips disappearing in a scowl.

"Rachel," Art called out as Tim attempted to slink past.

The wayward Deputy stopped in anticipation of some sarcasm.

"Let me guess," she replied, walking over to stand with him, "take Tim with me?"

"How did you know what I was going to say?"

"You've only said it the last three days," Tim muttered then continued to his desk.

Art ignored the remark, asked Rachel, "Since when is Tim _ever_ late?" then, not waiting for a reply, "I guess his girlfriend forgave him," then, "I'll bet it's that psychologist, isn't it?"

Tim ignored the baiting.

Art had said it all casually enough but Tim caught him looking sideways at Rachel, clearly hoping she'd give something away since Tim wasn't cooperating.

"You really think I'm not savvy to your interrogation techniques by now?" she replied smirking with Tim but keeping her receiver tuned to her boss. She smiled and added, "You know, Chief, you're too smart to be a man."

Art frowned. "I'm not sure how to take that."

Tim grinned at the back and forth, played it cool. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "What'd I miss?"

"Not much. Santa was in giving away winning lottery tickets. Oh, and don't get comfortable," Art said, after blithely watching Tim do just that. "You're going to Trimble with Rachel."

Tim turned off his computer and stood up. He looked at Art patiently, accepting the punishment, asked, "Trimble? What's in Trimble?"

Art slapped Tim's question aside with one of his own. "Isn't it against the law or something to sleep with your psychiatrist?"

That wiped the grin off Tim's face and tripped him into honesty. "She's a psychologist not a psychiatrist." Tim let his eyes glide from his boss to Rachel – all innocence on her face – then back trying to discover how Art knew.

"What's the difference?" Art shrugged.

"The difference is I can't get drugs from a psychologist."

Art's demeanor shifted instantly to concern. "You're taking drugs?"

"No," and Tim jumped instantly to defensive. He gritted his teeth. "I was just explaining. You asked what the difference was."

Art exchanged a look with Rachel that got Tim's back up even more.

"Is there a problem?" Tim snarled and took a step closer.

Art lowered his chin and stood his ground. "I don't know, Tim, is there?"

"Boys, let's back it up a bit, start again," Rachel said, stepping between them. "Why are you both so prickly? Tim, Art's just fishing to see if his hunch about your girlfriend is right. So let's pick it up there, shall we? Art says, 'Is it a good idea to be sleeping with your _psychologist_?' and you say..." She motioned for Tim to answer.

But Tim wasn't cooperating, didn't let Rachel interfere with the stand-off he was having with his boss. "You'd rather I be sleeping with a bottle of bourbon?" he challenged, speaking slowly.

"Or how about a bottle of oxy?" Art suggested, angry now and showing his hand.

Tim wet his lips and responded, "Is that the way you see it happening?"

"What I see happening is you late every day since _Tuesday_."

_Since I rolled in that pile of catnip_ , thought Tim, but he wasn't going there in an office full of coworkers, so he took the path of least resistance, spoke softly, "I'm sleeping with my psychologist, Chief. You got a problem with that?"

A tense moment passed. In his periphery Tim could see Rachel's confusion. And maybe Art could too, because the older man took a step back, planted his hands on his hips, not confrontational, comical, and looked up to the ceiling on the pretense of giving the question some serious consideration.

"Well, let me think about it." He rubbed his head with exaggerated vigor. "Smiling Tim's kind of a nice change," he concluded, trying to ease back into teasing, not quite getting there, "so I'll suffer with Nelson making the coffee and let you have your girl since she keeps you in such a good mood."

Tim pressed his lips together, backed off and cast a suspicious glance at Rachel.

"What? You think I said something?" She pulled him in the direction of the doors. "I didn't have to tell anyone about her. You wear it like a Time Square advertisement."

"Do not."

"Do, too," Art called out as they retreated into the hall.

Tim stopped just through the doors, let Rachel continue to the elevators and press the button. He stood a moment looking back into the bullpen, back at Art staring thoughtfully at the floor. Tim waited, hoping to make eye contact one more time but Art didn't look up, turned eventually and walked slowly into his office.

"Tim, you coming?" Rachel held the elevator door for him.

"Yeah." He shuffled in behind her. "Trimble, huh?" Tim repeated, getting back to the day's business. "Prisoner transport?"

"No. Art wants us to keep an eye on Dickie Bennett," Rachel explained. "He's being released today."

"Dickie Bennett? I didn't think he was getting his release, what with Raylan making a victim impact statement at the hearing."

"I think Raylan's statement made an impact alright, just not what everyone had in mind. Art's still mad at him for it."

"That good, huh?"

"Mmm."

"Fuck. Dickie Bennett. Can we stop for coffee on the way?" he pleaded.

"You want a cigarette with that?" She arched an eyebrow, smiled slyly. "I'm glad one of us is getting some."

Tim didn't say anything, couldn't keep a smile from showing briefly, leaned himself against the wall at the back of the elevator.

"I told you she'd understand."

"You just love saying that, don't you? _I told you so_." He crossed his arms. "God, imagine what it'd be like having you for an older sister."

Rachel stiffened; Tim froze. He forgot about everything else that was on his mind that morning while he grasped for a way to haul that last statement back out of the air, wiped a hand across his mouth, but too late to wipe away the words.

"Shit," he said and pushed himself off the wall, stood straight, faced her, "You know I didn't mean anything by that."

"I know."

"I'd take you on as an older sister. I mean you practically already are," Tim grimaced. "Of course people will know you adopted me."

She whipped a hand out and smacked him in the gut. "Shut up."

"I'll pay for coffee."

"Mm-hmm."

"And any other punishment…"

She threw the keys at him. "You drive."

"Okay, anything else?" He trailed after her to the van, contrite.

"Yes, there is something else," Rachel said as Tim unlocked the doors.

He had the good sense to look worried.

"You can tell me what that was all about." She pointed up then settled into the passenger seat.

Tim slumped into the van and hissed a long breath through his teeth, sidestepped. "I just hate having to always talk about my personal shit with Art."

"Well, this is what you signed up for. It's the price you pay for getting to legally shoot people. This job cuts under your skin and bleeds into your personal life and your personal life bleeds back into this job. You don't like Art being nosy? Quit." She left it at that and hung a look on him.

Tim hoped that would be enough to satisfy her because the real problem was that he didn't know how to talk about his personal shit. The things that preyed on his peace, the things that weighed down the happy end of his equilibrium, they were things that no one could understand, at least no one that hadn't been 'in the shit.' And that led to another problem, that being 'in the shit' meant you brought home a lot of shit and subsequently had to deal with all that shit. And it wasn't just, _oh dear, let's bandage that up for you_ , no, it was something you lived – every day. And some days he got tired of dealing with it and those days it got away from him and then he got tired of everyone wanting an explanation when it did.

Rachel broke into his silent tantrum, "And now you can tell me what that thing with Art was _really_ about 'cause I am not buying your 'personal shit' bullshit."

_Shit_ , he thought.

A minute passed. Another prod. "Waiting."

"I am _not_ a fuck up," he stated firmly, getting right to it.

Rachel put up both hands to stop this running away on her. "No one said you were."

"Art did."

"No, he didn't."

"Well, that's what I heard, loud and clear." Tim strangled the steering wheel, took a corner a little sharply. "He thinks since my little nighttime heroin extravaganza that I'm doing drugs."

Rachel's eyebrows arched up in disbelief then slowly furrowed as she thought back to the conversation. "Tim, I don't think that's what he meant."

"That's exactly what he meant. Everyone's just waiting for me to fuck up. They look at the statistics and then they look at me."

"Maybe you need to say that to Art. You're preaching to the choir here. I know you're not a fuck up."

"You sound like my girlfriend."

"I'd really like to meet your girlfriend, or is that getting all up in your personal shit?"

He looked askance at her, catching her profile, stubborn clearly etched.

"Mm-hmm," she confirmed smugly, defusing the situation with some Mrs. Brooks-style attitude. "I want to meet your girlfriend, then _maybe_ I'll think you've been punished enough for the sister comment."

Tim tried some diversion. "How're things with you and Joe?"

"Why do you think you're driving?" she snapped. "I was up half the night talking, round and round." She made circles with a finger, pressed her lips into a frown and stared out the window.

* * *

They chased Dickie around the state, getting back to Lexington late enough that Tim didn't bother going back into the office. He crossed the parking lot to drive home, hoping to avoid Art. His phone rang.

"Upstairs, _now_."

* * *

"Rachel tells me they wouldn't tolerate drug use in the sniper squads." Art was apparently tired of fishing, didn't bother hiding his objective this time.

Knowing this conversation was coming sooner or later, Tim worked hard not to get defensive. He had thought about it through the day, knew Rachel was right. If he were in Art's chair, the Chief's chair, he'd be concerned too.

Tim had to admit to his own concerns. He had been anxious every minute since the night he found Donny Hopkins and tasted for himself the ease of carefree hours, the slow drift on a lazy heroin river. Since that experience he had been constantly alert for that friendly whisper, that nudge of betrayal, that need to pay the fee and take another trip, make his escape. Substance abuse was a common enough problem with returning veterans. He had friends from the Rangers fighting a whole new war back on the homefront, had heard other stories about guys outside of his personal circle spiraling out of control, all of it tallying up to an uncomfortable number of casualties. He wet his lips and wondered what to say to put Art's mind at ease when he couldn't even do that for himself.

_Haven't gone there yet, Art, but don't let me out of your sight._

Maybe Art could assign a security detail, have him followed for a few weeks, months. It twigged then – that's why he'd been riding with Rachel all week.

He looked up from where he'd been watching his hands, fidgeting. He hadn't responded quickly enough. Art was studying him carefully.

"Yeah, I, uh, didn't want to part with my rifle."

"Your security blanket, huh?" Art jested.

A smirk. "Yep. Kind of a security blanket and the monster under the bed all in one." Tim ordered his face into a social grin hoping that would be that.

But Art wasn't going to let him off easily today. He sat back, a calculating look. "I know alcohol has been your drug of choice…up till now. But seriously, Tim," he leaned forward again, hands clasped on the desk, "can you imagine yourself wanting to try heroin again?"

Tim couldn't answer. The phrase 'pregnant pause' came to mind and he wondered what trouble this particular one was going to give birth to.

"Tim?" Art pressed, "Can you picture it happening?"

Tim shook his head, "No." Did he really mean that? Men were falling all around him. Why should he be any different? Superman didn't exist, not anymore, not for him. "No," he repeated hoping to make it true if he said it enough.

"Me neither. But I wanted to hear it from you. Though, honestly, under the circumstances and considering your background, I wouldn't think less of you if you'd said 'yes.'" Art slouched a little in his chair now that he'd leapt that particularly tall building, propped his head up on his elbow. "You ever find yourself needing help, you come see me."

"Okay."

"Okay."

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

* * *

And then there was the graveyard shift, a week of it, so Tim dubbed it later talking with Miljana over coffee.

"For me, it's been more like a month," she replied. "Why not stretch it out? I'll go with you."

He looked at her, the lost boy, shook his head. "Not yet."

"We can have sex in cheap motels," she tempted him. "It's not that long a drive to Virginia. You went for NASCAR."

He didn't look up this time, didn't smile even, shook his head.

"And we can take our baseball gloves," she sweetened the deal. "And I'll be there with you."

He shook his head again.

* * *

Tom Bergen's funeral came first. It was especially difficult for the Marshals office and one deputy in particular with the cloud of Arlo's arrest for the murder hanging over them. Anyone who wasn't on duty went out to support the widow and Raylan.

After paying their respects to the State Trooper, the Marshals, with the conspicuous exception of Raylan who disappeared for the remainder of the day, returned to work and moved in subdued slow motion through the murk of dread and the guilt of reprieve. _Not me, not today_ , sang like a dirge in the head of each trooper and deputy present at the service, playing over and over again even afterward, relentless, sobering. Art didn't even bother trying to look busy but walked into his office, sat in his chair and waited for happy hour.

A woman arrived shortly after everyone had settled in, asked for the Bureau Chief and was directed to his office. She and Art had a serious conversation behind a closed door, surreptitiously watched by all in the bullpen, curious and looking for a distraction.

Eventually Art stood and opened the door again. Serious still but more intense, he lifted his eyebrows and motioned for Tim, an invitation and a question. Tim had a few questions of his own forming from the look on Art's face and no idea what the invitation was about. He stopped just inside Art's office, cautious, occupied his usual spot supporting the door frame.

"Tim, this is Louise McIntyre. She's FBI. She has a couple of questions for you."

She wasted no time with pleasantries, not even a handshake. "Did you take this photo?" She held up a grainy copy of the picture Tim had snapped with his phone of the woman and her son on the afternoon he had lost his way trying to find the Dempsey house.

Tim nodded.

"Please, tell me you know where this child is currently."

She appeared calm, voice light, subtle movements, but the eyes were a bit frantic and Tim caught an undercurrent of urgency. He pushed off the frame and creased his forehead, offered what he could.

"Well, I know where I took that, but I can't guarantee they're still there. Can you tell me what's going on?"

"What made you take the picture?"

"I don't know. The boy didn't look happy to be there, kind of shut down, you know? Like you see sometimes with abuse." Tim couldn't look either of them in the eye while he spoke about it.

"So you decided to circulate it."

"I sent it over to Children's Services, wanted to see if they had a file on him."

The agent lifted a different picture from the folder she was carrying, handed it to Tim. A little girl smiled out in color, seated happily at a dinner table, a head of curly blond hair and bright flowered fabric on a dress. The cake had six candles. "Your boy is a girl, Deputy, Christie Harrison. They've cut her hair and dyed it. She was abducted from her house in South Carolina a little over eight months ago."

Tim stared at the face, tried to imagine it framed with short dark hair, the flowers exchanged for plaid. "Shit," he said, sat down on a chair. "I remember that incident."

The agent sat as well, contained, spoke softly. "I flew in as soon as I got this. The parents have seen it. An over-zealous case worker went to them first when the photo circulated rather than contacting us. They're convinced it's her; so are we. And they're on their way here as we speak. They want to be there when she gets picked up but that's just a really bad idea." A break in the composure.

"Agent McIntyre has asked that we get the girl and bring her back to Lexington," Art cut in. "I think you should go, Tim. You know where the house is and you found her in the first place."

"I'll meet her parents at the airport and calm them down," the agent added. "This can't wait. You have to go now. I have a warrant."

Tim stood up, nodded again.

"Take Rachel," Art ordered.

"Okay." Tim turned to go, hesitated. "Can I ask a favor?" he blurted out.

"Anything," the agent replied. "Just bring me Christie Harrison."

"What do you need?" asked Art.

* * *

Rachel offered to move to the back seat but Miljana waved her off, slipped in behind Tim and ruffled his hair.

"So why all the hush, hush, rush, rush?" she asked, smiling for Tim's partner and accepting the handshake with the introduction.

Rachel passed Miljana the FBI file and studied her as she read through it. Tim eventually reached out and flicked Rachel on the shoulder to get her to stop the scrutiny and Rachel chuckled, happy to be getting under his skin for a change.

"You found her in Kentucky?" Miljana exclaimed after a quick skim of the information.

Rachel smiled grimly, "Tim thought it a good idea to have you along when we pick her up."

They drove quickly, feeling that every minute passed lessened the chances that they'd find the girl at the house again. Tim and Rachel bantered to ease the tension.

"Didn't think getting lost would be so productive."

Rachel teased. "Only a man could've done it."

"Hey," he snarled, "I'll have you know I was stopping to ask directions."

"I didn't have any trouble with the aunt's instructions."

"That's 'cause you speak 'girl.'"

Rachel grinned, let it go. "Better watch it, Tim. Estill County is becoming your Harlan. You'll be down here every other day."

"Uh-uh. I cleaned all the shit out of that county in one night last week, remember? I'm done here."

Rachel snorted. "Since you're so efficient, maybe Art should let you take over Harlan."

"Jesus, no thank you. I'd rather tackle world peace. It'd be easier. I'll start in the Middle East."

"I thought you said you'd never go to Iraq?"

"I'll just sit tight in Jordan, work it from there."

Rachel turned around and interrupted Miljana's reading. "Typical guy – thinks he can run the world from a La-Z-Boy in front of the TV with just a few stern words and a loud voice."

"Maybe the UN should consider banning the use of recliners?" Miljana suggested.

"While they're at it, they should also ban televised sports."

"But let's not be hasty," Miljana mused. "Maybe we're missing an opportunity here. Maybe the UN should mandate a recliner and a flat screen TV and a sports network package in every home to keep the boys busy, and then we could get on with things, get it done properly." She nodded, satisfied with the plan. "A La-Z-Boy and fresh running water."

"You know, you might be on to something." Rachel turned to Tim. "I like her, Tim. Why's she dating you?"

"He cleans my car." Miljana answered the question for him.

Tim huffed. "How did I get stuck riding with you two?"

"Bringing her was your idea," Rachel reminded him "and a good one, I should add. It's nice to have some intelligent conversation for a change."

"Thank you," Miljana said cheerfully. "I get why Tim likes you so much. You call it like it is. It's refreshing."

"Like a slap in the face," Tim grumbled.

* * *

"That's the house," Tim said, barely a twitch in that direction.

Miljana turned to look, stopped herself when she saw that neither Tim nor Rachel had made any movement, keeping their eyes straight ahead.

"What're you thinking?" Rachel deferred the planning to Tim.

"I think they'd be less likely to spook with two women approaching the door. I'll go around back in case they have an escape route planned out." He turned the car around and pulled over and he and Rachel undid their seatbelts. "Give me fifteen minutes."

Rachel nodded, checked her watch.

"You think they might try to run away from two Marshals?" Miljana asked, disbelieving and innocent.

Rachel replied, "They've managed to avoid being caught so far and there was a massive federal hunt when the girl first went missing."

Tim climbed out of the car and Rachel slid over into the driver's seat then Tim opened Miljana's door, motioned for her to get out. "Sit in the front," he said. "Just follow Rachel's lead. You'll be fine."

"Where are you going?"

"Around back." He kissed her quickly, ran across the road, hopped the ditch and disappeared into the woods.

"He's going alone?"

Rachel smiled reassurance for her as she settled into the passenger seat. "He's fine. He likes playing in the woods. He always volunteers for it so we've stopped asking. We just pull over and open the door and he takes off running, all happy and frisky."

"So you're like irresponsible dog owners?"

"Pretty much."

* * *

Tim was pleased to see a car parked at the side of the house as he approached from the woods behind. The curtains on the main floor were all drawn tight. When Rachel pulled into the driveway, he sprinted across the open lawn and waited beside the back door. He could hear the girls chattering and laughing then the doorbell chimed. A door opened and a man's voice joined the mix. Tim pressed himself against the siding as the back door opened and the woman he'd seen last week appeared, pushed at the screen, the little girl in her grip. Tim stepped into view.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked coldly, blocking their way and pulling his Marshals star out from where it hung on a chain inside his jacket. "I think you'd best just turn around and head back inside."

The woman took one look at him and let out a sob.

Rachel appeared behind them at the door to the kitchen.

"Where's the husband?" Tim asked her. "I thought I heard you talking to him."

"He went upstairs to get his wife," Rachel replied with a stony look for the woman then she turned and walked swiftly back down the hall to the living room, calling out as she went, "Mr. Crawford?"

Following her, Tim herded the woman and the girl ahead of him into the front room, the living room, where Miljana was standing nervously. She smiled when she saw him, but the relief on her face flickered as Mr. Crawford appeared on the stairs with a desperate look and a rifle aimed.

Tim drew his sidearm and stepped between a bullet and Miljana, a single swift movement. "Don't," he snarled.

Rachel pulled her weapon slowly, kept it pointed down, addressed the man in a calm voice, "Mr. Crawford, we're Federal US Marshals. The police are already on their way to this address. I sent them notification of our intentions before we came up here. It's over. Do you understand?"

Mrs. Crawford groaned, a sound primal in its despair. She recognized it was over, saw her fate laid out before her and clutched the little girl tightly. The girl allowed it, limp as a toy.

Tim pushed thoughts of the kid out of his head, her situation unimaginable, her feelings likely abandoned in confusion and grief months ago. Her eyes were deep dark holes that he avoided looking into. He kept his gun level, his eyes locked on Mr. Crawford's.

"This girl is not yours to keep," Rachel continued. "She never was. She never will be. There's no chance of it now. She belongs to someone else and you _stole_ her. Put down the rifle. If you so much as blink, my partner will not hesitate to pull the trigger. And he'll be happy to do it."

The words took the fight out of the man and he melted down, collapsing like a sand castle in a brief but slow-motion slide onto the floor, each joint giving way separately but all at once.

Tim took two quick steps to get to him and yanked the rifle out of his hands. "Milja, take Christie outside."

Miljana moved forward hesitantly; Tim steadied her with a look. She crouched down, on a level with the girl, pulled her from Mrs. Crawford's grasp, prying the woman's fingers loose from her hold on the girl's jacket.

"Are you ready to go home now, Christie?" she asked her gently, tipping the girl's chin up to look at her. "Your mama's waiting." Then Miljana offered her a hand to take. Christie stared at it but didn't move so Miljana took the girl's hand instead, lightly, and led her from the room.

When the screen door at the front thudded against its frame, Tim handed Rachel the rifle, yanked Mr. Crawford from the floor, turned him roughly and cuffed his hands behind his back.

"Sit down," he snapped, "both of you," and shoved the man onto the couch. He turned to Rachel. "The phone's in the kitchen. I'll watch them."

Rachel looked on calmly, nodded and left the room. Neither of the Crawfords spoke, weighing their future, a mountain of debt to be paid. Tim moved as far from them as he could get, leaned against the archway to the hall and waited, watching without pity as Mrs. Crawford began to weep silently.

* * *

When the cruiser pulled in, Rachel walked to the door and pushed the screen open with her foot, holding up her ID for the locals.

The Sheriff waved, remembering her, cast a curious glance back to the top of the yard where Miljana was sitting cross-legged under a tree talking to the girl then looked to the Marshal for instructions. When Rachel motioned him to the house, he shut the door to his car and strode over. He stepped past Rachel into the hall and grinned at Tim in recognition.

"You two, again. You sure know how to stir things up," he jested.

* * *

 


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

Tim was back at his desk, working sporadically on the report for the arrests, spending most of his time watching the drama in the conference room. Miljana had stayed on at the request of Agent McIntyre who was grateful for the extra support handling the tsunami of emotions that hit when the Marshals walked through the door with the little girl in tow. The reunion of Christie Harrison with her parents was to take place right then, not ideal but the circumstances dictated the need. The Harrisons couldn't hold it together. Everything collapsed quickly. Miljana set a hand lightly on Agent McIntyre's arm, leaned in and whispered kindly, suggested she stop trying to control it and just let it happen. In the end that was all she could do anyway, just let it happen.

Art walked over to stand at Tim's desk at one point, and Rachel moved closer to be part of the conversation. But all Art had to say was, "I can't take this. I'm going for coffee. Anybody want anything?" He left quickly, came back a half hour later more composed.

Miljana came out after things had calmed enough and plunked herself in the chair opposite Tim.

"Wow," she said, and smoothed the fatigue from her face with her hands. "And this is your job?"

Tim opened his eyes wide, shook his head. "Nope. Normally we're crying 'cause we're _laughing_ so hard at how stupid people are, or we're not laughing at all 'cause we're _crying_ at how shitty people are. All this emotional stuff today," he waved a hand around the room, "it's just weird."

Miljana studied Tim carefully, unable to determine if he were being funny, decided he must be when he grinned at her like an idiot.

"I have to go to another funeral tomorrow," he said, leaned back and stretched. "A double actually. You want to come?"

"Boy, you sure know how to show a girl a good time." She smiled, sad, tired, happy. "What the hell, why not?" She stood up and walked behind his desk to peer through the blinds out the window, watching people walking past on the street below.

Tim swiveled in his chair contentedly following her movements.

He grinned for her again when she looked over, got one back. "I'll take you for dinner when we're done. I'm starving. I missed lunch."

"Let's go to your place and order in."

"Fine by me."

"Agent McIntyre suggested I might want to try applying at Family Services to get more experience. She said she'd put in a word for me." She looked at him expectantly, inviting an opinion.

"Well, it's not Serbia, but there's some fucked up shit going on right here in Kentucky."

* * *

Simon Tislow's funeral was poorly attended. Tim and Rachel made the trip to London for the service to see if any other bad guys showed up. They half expected to see someone else they could bring in and laughed when they found they were disappointed when no one came. Art had thoughtfully sent the service information to Deputy van Hassel but unsurprisingly he was a no-show, too.

Tim decided he wanted to attend Donny Hopkins' funeral out of some bizarre sense of ownership. And maybe he needed closure. The families of the star-crossed lovers had agreed to bury them together a second and last time, but more traditionally. Although Donny and Patty were the first victims in a week of murders and fatal accidents, they were the last to be laid to rest. The bodies of the parrot-murdering junkie and his girlfriend were slow to be released, caught up in the multi-jurisdictional bureaucracy of a convoluted murder investigation involving at least three states and three levels of law enforcement. Even Simon Tislow and Cole Ferguson, Powder White's right-hand man, were already interred.

Tim was surprised when Art showed up at the cemetery at the end of the road, appearing at his side before the service began. Coincidentally it was the same graveyard where Tim had stretched his legs the week before and he took his boss on a tour through the rows and pointed out the marker for S. Tislow.

"So why are you here?" Tim asked.

Art shrugged, "I feel I owe Donny Hopkins. So much good came from tracking down his sorry ass."

"Have you spoken to Judge Taylor yet? Is he satisfied?"

"You know, it's funny, but he got a bit choked up when I explained to him what happened. Said that Donny shouldn't have had to pay with his life." Art shook his head expressively. "I don't get Judges. They're a strange bunch."

* * *

Pete wasn't any taller than Tim, but more solidly built and calm where Tim would fidget. Out on the shooting range though, or in their nest on a hill in Afghanistan, Tim was the focused one, more consistent with the shots, cool under pressure. In the end, Tim was always the one on the trigger when they went out and Pete was his spotter. No one messed with the undeniable chemistry.

The idea was Tim's and Pete had approved, good-natured and trusting, a team. They refined a plan together, took it up the proper chain of command through their Squad Sergeant who was enthusiastic and supportive, to their Lieutenant who was an idiot and stalled it.

So, with the blessing and complicity of some of the senior NCOs, the boys got creative and networked and connived and made it happen, a word to air ops, a word to the next squad leader sent to cover the area, a few cases of beer.

The idea was this. There was a section of road north of Kandahar, a supply route and a narrowing, an ideal place to set an IED because it was a difficult stretch to secure. You couldn't approach from any direction undetected to monitor the area. Teams had tried in the past, holed up for days and back again when the supplies ran out, nothing for their efforts. The enemy watched and waited; the Rangers gave up and went back to base, then another IED, another explosion, more casualties, more injuries.

Another team was sent out to sit on the hillside, concealed, unsuccessful, and when the helo came to pull them out a few days later, Tim and Pete slipped in, their entrance veiled by the whirl of dust kicked up by the rotors and the bustle of the troops loading. They hid under a camouflage covering until dark. When the sun was down and the moon not yet up, they folded their cover and slipped silently into a position they'd picked out from aerial photographs – a shadowy crag on a hill at the end of the pass looking back down the lethal length of the road. It was a good couple of kilometers to cover so they brought the M107 for range, set up, sipped at their water, wet dry lips and waited.

And waited.

They stretched out limbs and groaned, took turns sleeping, bitched, sipped at their water, chewed rations and waited and watched and waited. The sun was hot by mid-morning and they sweated under the gear and the layers of combat clothing, then the sun went down and the bare ground gave up its heat without a fight and the sweat froze on their skin and the distance they'd slowly put between themselves during the daylight to keep cool closed quickly as they tried to retain any warmth at all.

And they waited.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Tim hissed, "you're not drinking enough to have to piss again."

"I gotta take a piss," Pete chuckled, punchy after sitting in one place for almost three days.

"Fuck. Well aim better this time, dipshit."

"What am I supposed to do?" he complained, gesturing at his crotch. "It's so long I have no control over it past a point."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tim cursed. "No wonder I have to do all the shooting on this rifle if you can't even control an inch and a half of dick."

"And you're supposed to be this hot shot sniper with excellent eyesight and good distance perception and you can't see the difference between an inch and a half and ten inches? Whose dick did you suck to get into sniper school?"

"Not yours – I'd've presumed looking that you didn't have one."

"You always look at guy's crotches?"

"Only when I'm choosing team mates to sit in a hole with. I look for the guys who've got one long enough to piss so it doesn't run back in. But you fooled me. You were padding."

"Fuck you."

"Asshole," Tim muttered. He kept his eye on the road during the bickering. Watching. "Uh, Pete," he whispered.

"Shut up. I can't piss when you're talking."

"There's a woman walking toward the road. Ten o'clock."

"Shit."

Pete rolled back over and picked up his scope and Tim settled into position behind the rifle.

"Do I see kids? Has she got kids with her?" Pete whispered.

Tim peered through the rifle scope, tracking down the road until he could see the woman. "Yeah, I see two kids. What are they doing out here? They shouldn't be out here. There's nothing out here for them."

"She's stopped."

"Shit," Tim sighed, his world shrinking to this minute. "Are the kids bringing her rocks? They're bringing her rocks, aren't they? What are they covering?"

"Yeah, that's an affirmative. Rocks."

"When's the next convoy coming through?" Tim asked, then, "Fuck."

"What?"

"Wires. I saw a wire."

"The convoy is close, man, I can see the dust. Maybe that's how they do it. Signal and set up right when the convoy's coming. I mean it's not like we come through here on a schedule for them." Pete talked urgently. "What do we do? Do we shoot the IED? We gotta warn the convoy – detonate it."

"And kill the kids? Besides, it might not go anyway. Depends on the explosives they're using."

"We gotta try. We have a choice? What else can we do?"

The two stared into their scopes, a narrow perspective on the world, and tried to come up with a plan to encompass the larger picture.

"Call it," Tim said, settling for an uncomfortable solution in an uncomfortably tight time frame. "Call it on the woman."

Pete paused, not understanding.

"Call it!" Tim hissed, cheek pressed into the rifle, "They'll stop for a body. Call it. The woman."

Pete looked through the scope, called the corrections for the shot. Tim listened, adjusted, steadied, dropped his finger on the trigger and fired. When the sight lined up again the kids were gone, scrambling for cover in the hillside, the woman lay in a spray of red.

"Shit."

* * *

The convoy halted when they spotted an object on the road ahead, cautious on this particular stretch. After a silence of a few minutes, broken only by the wind scraping at the rocks, the Rangers in the convoy ventured out of their vehicles and set up a perimeter.

Tim and Pete broke down the rifle and made their way carefully along the hill until they were abreast of the lead gun truck, keeping to the shadows, careful not to be seen by either side. They reasoned that if there were any enemy snipers in the area, they'd have taken a shot at the men on the road by now. So when they were as close as they could get, they stepped out from their cover, rifles up high over their heads, praying that the Rangers in the convoy weren't too nervous, and walked at a casual pace, not too fast, not too slow, calling out their names and ranks and units as they approached. They set their weapons on the ground and walked another ten feet before stopping and waiting for two of the men from the convoy to approach and identify them.

"Gutterson?"

"Hey, Grinder." Tim used the man's nickname and got an instant grin.

"What the fuck, man?" the corporal hollered. "What're you doing out here?"

"Watching the road."

The corporal turned and waved back to the convoy. "It's okay," he called out enthusiastically.

* * *

The Lieutenant wasn't as pleased to see them. "You shot a civilian, a woman?" he yelled. "Do you have any idea the shit you're in? This is a clusterfuck, Sergeant. This is a court martial waiting for you when you get home. And believe me, you are going home. I already put you down as AWOL when you didn't show up for orders two days ago."

The convoy was still stopped, exposed on the road. They didn't risk moving forward in case there was an IED under the body and no one was volunteering to go check – the haji with the cell phone might be waiting for just that. The Lieutenant hadn't issued an order to call for an EOD team, unsure what he was dealing with and not wanting to be embarrassed if it was nothing, and he hadn't suggested they go back either. And Tim, the senior ranked of the errant sniper duo, was getting an earful.

"Just what are you two doing here, Sergeant? I wasn't informed that there was a sniper team out on this road. Do you have orders to be here?"

Tim had no comeback and 'No excuse, sir' was too cliché to bother with.

"How does a murder trial sound to you, Sergeant?" the Lieutenant yelled then turned to his communications man. "Get on the radio. I want the MPs waiting when we get back to base. I want this idiot in the brig before sundown."

Then Pete had had enough. "Fuck this," he grunted then stomped recklessly up the road past the perimeter toward the body, muttering and cursing.

Tim forgot decorum and rank when he realized what his friend was doing. He pushed the officer aside and sprinted after him. "Pete! Pete, don't! You idiot. Stop!"

The other men were unprepared for Pete's excursion into danger but had fair warning when Tim tried to run past. One of them reached out and got hold of his fatigues, stopping him.

Pete continued angrily down the road, no one dared go after him, and when he reached the woman's body, he bent down and rolled her over. Underneath was a good-sized pack of explosives. He turned around and yelled loudly, sarcasm and spite echoing off the hills, "Holy shit! Look at that. A mother fucking improvised explosive fucking device! What a fucking surprise. And you're fucking welcome for saving your fucking asses!"

Held back by two Rangers, Tim could only watch, screaming, desperate, "Pete, you asshole. Get the fuck back here. Jesus!"

Pete continued to search around the body, eventually straightened again and held up a cell phone. "Hey, anyone want to call home? Haji's paying."

* * *

The woman was a man; the Major sitting safely in one of the vehicles saw the whole thing in a different light than the Lieutenant, commended the sniper team and adopted the infiltration technique as routine; Tim got to keep his stripes. When they got back to base, Tim opened the bottle of bourbon he'd been saving for his birthday and toasted Pete and then they drank it all because they hated to see it go bad.

And that was the end of the story that Tim told Miljana, with her on another day in another graveyard, Arlington this time. Tim looked down the row to his left, a long line of white dominoes standing erect to mark the fallen and he had a moment's granting of slapstick, of knocking over Pete's gravestone and it hitting the next one and the next and on and on down the length and breadth of the cemetery until they were all lying down on the ground.

"Is this supposed to make me feel better? 'Cause it doesn't."

Miljana smiled sadly and tucked her hair behind her ears so it would stop blowing in her face when she needed to look at him. And she looked at him and said, "But you didn't know that till you came here, did you?" She stood in front of him, blocking Pete's name, ran a hand down the front of his jacket. "So now you know and you can stop dreading this trip and stop feeling guilty for not coming. It's done."

Tim turned his head to look down the row to his right, down another long line of white dominoes.

"You hungry?" he asked. "I'm starving."

* * *

the end


End file.
